


Tombstone

by DoraTLG, Only_1_Truth



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond has too many knives, Canon-Typical Violence, D/s cowboys, I dare you to say that's not new, In which Q gets hit on by absolutely everyone that walks into his shop and he doesn’t know why, LittleShit!Q, M/M, Please don't kill us for ruining US history, Q in a corset, Sexual Tension, SleepyOctopus!Q, Slow Burn, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-10-18 14:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoraTLG/pseuds/DoraTLG, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: Q's life is as simple and uneventful as one can only hope for in a world of constant chaos. He is content, thank you very much. He has his shop, the best gun shop in the country, probably, and a bright future of the son of a sheriff, one of the steadiest positions a man could hold in the Wild West. Everything is perfect. Until...... until a certain James Bond, a wanted fugitive and a force to be reckoned with, enters the town, and Q's whole life turns to an adventure he never asked for, and which could very well be his downfall. Bond claims that a horrible, blood thirsty bandit named Silva has picked their little town as his latest target, and Q is naive enough to believe him.Naive... or the only one who sees the truth?





	1. The Newcomer

**Author's Note:**

> We have several apologies to make.
> 
> First of all, if any of you actually know the history of these towns, you might see that we slightly bent it. It's all been done for the good of the story, trust us.
> 
> Secondly... this fic is a complete linguistic mess. A Slovak girl living in England and a Canadian girl living in the US wrote an Old West set story. At one point we almost had Q say "Oi!". But overall, we just wanted to have a bit of fun. So this story might not be overly historically accurate, but it was written with heart and we had a lot of fun. We hope you'll have just as much fun reading it.
> 
> PS: If at times you feel like the fic is turning into a James Bond appreciation post, you are right.
> 
> PS2: This story is completed and only has to be beta edited. The first two chapters are done so we'll see how often we can post. Our beta is amazingly quick when at work, but unfortunately busy, so have patience with us :)

“Don’t do that to me, please,“ Q hung his head and sighed, his tone tired as if he had already said the same thing a thousand times before, but firm. He couldn’t bear the pleading gaze of the woman on the other side of the counter. He'd been going through the new stock that came from Tucson when Eve Tanner came into his shop, as seemed to be a habit of hers lately, and began to make him feel like shit. Also something she was good at lately. Right now her puppy eyes were making him want to reach behind him, take any of the guns hanging on the wall, and blow his brains out.

“Just talk to your father,” she kept saying, using that tone only women knew to abuse, and to which men were so liable to succumb, the tone that said ‘it’s nothing, you can do it, do it for me, please? I will be grateful to you forever’. Q still had no idea how they crammed such a long message into one whiny sound.

“I can’t promise anything,” he finally turned and snatched the first gun he saw in an effort to seem busy for the few next minutes. He started cleaning it with a cloth he kept under the counter.

“I’m not asking for promises, I just need your help. Come on, Q, who else could help if not you?”

He looked into her big dark eyes. She was the most beautiful woman in the town, and although she wasn’t showing it now, also the toughest. Her black skin had attracted the hatred and distrust of the whole town when she first arrived, but she soon proved to be a force to stay clear of, and a great friend to those who treated her with respect. Q was one of those people, back when they first met, and she never forgot it. Right now, he almost wished she would.

“I’ll talk to him,” he said finally. “Now please go before you break my heart.”

“Oooh, thank you, Q!” she scrunched her face in honest gratitude, leaned over the counter and pulled him in for a kiss on his cheek. Then she straightened, sobered up, and her face grew serious. “I know there’s not much to do. But I needed that hope.”

He smiled at her sadly and she left, her dress whirling dust from the ground.

When she was gone and the door was shut behind her, he put the gun on the counter and leaned his hands against the polished wood. Life in the wild, wild West was never easy, and he had no idea how hard it must be for people like her. He was always relatively safe from the whims of the world he lived in, with a family business he inherited after his father retired in order to become the town sheriff. It was an undemanding position for which he was perfect with his many years as the town gun seller. Now that Q had taken over as the gun seller, he loved his job. He knew that if everything went well, he’d remain content and safe and his life would be uneventful.

He decided to get the meeting with his father over with as quickly as possible and was locking the shop up five minutes after Eve had left. The town was quite busy that morning – people he knew since childhood were milling about, minding their business, selling, buying, fixing and breaking, living their lives. Q liked it. He liked the calm busyness of this place, how people weren’t in a rush but never stalled, always doing something to improve the town or their homes.

He walked through the square and into one of the houses on the other side of it, right next to the Sheriff’s office. He knocked before he walked in, finding his father sitting at the table, eating breakfast.

Geoffrey Boothroyd was a surprisingly old man, given that most men married young and had children soon. He was long past his last black hair and liked to take his time before going to the station and seeing to his responsibilities, which weren’t difficult to handle in a town like this. That was also why he remained the sheriff even though in a different town, a younger man would have taken his place.

“Good morning,” Q said as he approached him with a smile. Boothroyd smiled back at him, and motioned to the food on the table.

“Care to join me?” he asked, then looked up from his piece of bread and made a face. “Where are your glasses again? You will go blind if you don’t wear them!”

“I don’t like them and I see perfectly well, thank you,” Q frowned. He needed them for reading, so he kept them at the shop, but most of the time ignored them even if he was having problems.

Boothroyd shook his head in annoyance and went back to eating. Q took in a breath.

“Tanner’s wife came to see me again.”

“Aaaargh!” the old sheriff made a face and leaned back in his chair, putting the bread down, suddenly without appetite. “I told that woman, begging won’t help anyone! The man has committed a crime and that’s it!”

“I know,” Q winced. This was the reason he didn’t like to talk to his father about this case. Boothroyd was a very honest man, which was a great thing for a sheriff, but sometimes rules didn’t solve everything, sometimes one had to take a different approach to things and look at them from different angles, not stubbornly stand their ground and refuse to see past them. And Q felt like this was the case that needed that.

“He is a good man, Paps,” he said. “He’s made a mistake, yes, but he was doing it for his wife and sister. He had a noble reason.”

He sat down and looked his father straight in the eyes.

“I've known him since we were boys. His sister is pregnant and the father has left them. How was he supposed to solve their financial situation with a gimp leg?”

But Boothroyd just shook his head. “There are better ways than stealing. Mallory had to work for those cows just like anyone has to…”

“Mallory is a rich bastard who wouldn’t miss one cow.”

But Q already knew that the fight was lost, he knew his father too well. He looked down, shaking his head in disappointment, and stood up. He wanted to say something about the service Bill Tanner had performed for their society, which was the reason he was limping in the first place, because of an old war injury, but he knew exactly what that kind of talk would provoke in his father – the one thing Geoffrey Boothroyd would lose his temper about was his young son pretending he knew more of war than his father did, even though Boothroyd himself never was in one. So Q said his goodbyes and turned to leave to finish restocking his shop.

“Wait, you should know something,” Boothroyd called after him as he reached the door. Q turned with an anticipatory expression.

“There might be trouble heading our way,” Boothroyd said, masking his worry behind a wince. “I’ve had news from Sierra Vista that a gunman is coming our way and might try to cross the city. A wanted man. Hopefully the news is wrong, but just to be sure, stop by the office to see his picture, Randy will be putting it up later.”

Q nodded but was still thinking about Bill’s fate.

“I’ll come with lunch and look at it,” he said absentmindedly and left. 

~^~

James Bond rode into Tombstone, Arizona, with a storm at his back, a purely metaphorical thunderhead that felt like it was throwing lightning at his shoulders even as the noonday sun beat down. By the way everyone was skittering behind closed doors as he rode in, his reputation had preceded him, an unfortunate fact that had the blue-eyed gunman grimacing and flexing his hands unconsciously. Damn. He had the full intention of shooting people in the next few days, but not townspeople. Trying to convince them of that, at this point, seemed like a wasted effort, however, so with a sigh that felt like he was exhaling years of dust, Bond dismounted at the little gun shop, trying to project harmlessness and knowing that he was failing. 

The relatively darker and cooler interior of the gun shop had him pausing, old reflexes dying hard as he stood in the doorway to assess the situation, gaze flitting economically from corner to corner, marking windows, doorways - people. Or just person, in this case. James’s time in the army had accustomed him to all types, but even he had to raise an eyebrow at the wild mess of hair atop the head of the young man standing behind the counter. The eyes that flicked up to meet his from cleaning a long shotgun were alert enough behind their spectacles, however, so James let the door fall closed behind him even as he was greeted by a polite, “Hello. What can I do for you?”

“Ammunition, please,” James grunted shortly, unholstering his two six-bullet revolvers and putting them on the counter by way of explanation. Part of him was resigned to explaining exactly what he was looking for, but he had tentative hope that the kid actually knew what he was doing behind that counter and wasn’t just an assistant left to mind the shop while his boss was out to lunch. 

It was therefore something of a surprise to James when the lanky man put down the shotgun with a loud clatter, leaned over without touching, and murmured without hesitation, “Hmm.” Bond read competency in his body-language, but also disapproval as the young man’s mouth shifted into a frown, “Hold on. I just got a shipment in of bullets for these.”

Unsure exactly what to make of the fellow, James opted to make no comment, instead folding his arms on the countertop and settling in to wait, even as he did one more reflexive scan of the room - and the world beyond the windows, watching the quiet drinking of his horse at the trough just outside, the homey-looking tavern across the way, and the continued lack of people trying to shoot him. The last thing was what had made his shoulders relax minutely by the time the man returned, placing a box of cartridges on the wooden surface. When Bond picked up the box, however, only to find that they were indeed the right ones, the dark-haired fellow was somehow quick enough to reach for and lift up one of Bond’s revolvers. Bond blamed his own delayed reflexes on the fact that he’d been in the saddle all day, and the fact that he’d dropped his guard because this man looked about as dangerous as a tumbleweed. 

The young man started turning the gun over in his hands expertly, looking up close at the old thing. Then he took out a cloth from under the counter and started polishing the woodwork and cleaning the scratches and scrapes on the metal parts, going as far as popping the revolver open and spitting into it to clean it properly. 

“These can last up to forty years if you care for them, and only start jamming after that. This one is what, ten? Ever had a problem firing it?”

Startled despite himself with the other man’s obviously experienced handling of the instrument, James just blinked for a second, and actually resisted the urge to grab the weapon back. After a beat, however, he replied cautiously, “I’ve had them both since the war.” He was about to keep talking and explain that no, he rarely had any trouble because while the outside of his revolvers looked rough, he did take care of them - when he realized that he was about to say more to a stranger than he’d probably said in three weeks. “What’s your name, anyway?” he demanded instead.

The gun seller looked at him and held his gaze, and Bond felt scrutinized, as if the lanky fellow was looking at every part of him and then putting the pieces together in a mental image of his personality. 

“Q,” he said finally.

Perhaps the long stretch of time he’d spent in the saddle with no company was telling, because Bond found himself answering immediately, frowning, “That’s not a name, that’s a letter of the alphabet.”

The ‘Q’ looked at him with what could only be described as dry humour, and said, “Every word consists of the letters of the alphabet. It's how the language works, surprisingly.”

Ruffled by the response, Bond shifted, but still kept a tight rein on his usual urge to be the one holding the gun. He’d had similar items aimed at him often enough that he got understandably fidgety when he wasn’t the armed one, but at that moment, his predominant emotions were curiosity and annoyance in equal measure. Looking at the box of bullets and realizing that only one of those emotions would pay dividends, however, the blond-haired gunman took a deep breath, reached deeper for wherever his manners had gone to die, and retreated to the earlier topic, “The last time either of those jammed was when I’d just ridden through a sandstorm, so while you may not be impressed by the look of them, they’re dependable.”

Q shrugged and finally put the cloth down, then stretched out his hand - the empty one - for the other gun. Bond slid it to him across the counter after a moment’s hesitation, figuring that if Q hadn’t shown an interest in shooting him already, it was probably safe. It was also probably likely that his paranoia was showing, but considering his reasons for being in town, he felt that it was a legitimate paranoia.

Q must have noticed something, because his glances at the other man became quicker, assessing, suspicious.

“Where you coming from?” he asked, but it wasn't an interrogative question, more of an icebreaker. Most new faces were travelers who were either looking for a new home or on a business trip, and friendships at this stage of meeting new people, when everyone was a stranger not at home, were many times created by finding someone from the same part of the world. “You sound Virginian. Long way from home?” 

“You could say that,” Bond hedged, before wondering if that sort of evasion would come across as rude as calling Q an alphabet letter. Recalling some of the old charm he used to have in spades, he warmed up his smile and elaborated, “I travel extensively. But I’ve been through Virginia. Why, you from there?” The old intricacies of conversation began to come back to him, like the glossy finish starting to show through on his revolvers under Q’s care even now. 

Q looked at him again, this time with a small smile in the corner of his mouth.

“You could say that.”

The note of curiosity that had spiked Bond’s blood grew more pronounced, and he wasn’t sure if it was the answer or the smile. Relaxing a bit more in his slouch against the counter, Bond sallied back, “Now, that’s just unfair, using a man’s own words against him.” He lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, adding, “And mind you, I tacked a bit more substance into my answer.” 

Q blinked and looked down at the guns, spooked. It took Bond a moment to parse out the reaction, until he realized that it was unheard of to even think about the way Bond’s eyes looked him over in any other way but friendly in this part of the world. Although the military was quite a different story, a young man from a little town like this would probably be appalled by Bond’s tone of voice. Still, when Q looked up, there was unmistakable interest in his eyes. He bit his lip, seemingly absentmindedly, and James took that as his cue to keep pushing. Bond hadn’t really been trying to make the young man uncomfortable before now, but that didn’t mean the idea wasn’t appealing. So, against his better judgement, he smiled and went on, “If all you really wanted to do was fondle my guns, you could have just said so. I’m not opposed to just sitting and watching a man at play, so long as he’s got competent hands - which I think you do.”

Q raised his eyebrows, his mouth curling up in a smile.

“Fondle your guns?” he asked in disbelief. “You sure are forward, mister. Wanna go on with polishing the muzzle and shooting the load, or should I just assume that comes with the package?” he leaned closer, the smile not leaving his face, and looked Bond over brazenly. “Why don't you holster those guns before I start assuming you wanted to make some…” he leaned even closer, his voice lowering into a fake confidential tone, “... impure propositions?”

And he pushed the guns on the counter over to the blue eyed man.

“Why on earth would I make that, Q?” Bond turned the conversation around, delighted that he’d gotten a response this time - and an unexpected one at that, “When we’ve only just met and you don’t even know my name?” Nonetheless, he took his revolvers back, although not without a certain flourish. Just as he was not above flirting with a man, he was not above showing off.

In all honesty, he was not above… precious little. Which probably explained how he’d reached this low point in his life. 

Q’s eyebrows went up again. “And what is your name?”

Just as Bond was opening his mouth to answer, the door behind him opened and a set of heavy boots could be heard on the wooden floor, entering the shop.

“James Bond!” an old but strong voice rumbled behind him, and another five… no, six pairs of boots tromped inside. “Oh boy, are you dumb to show up here.”

Q straightened up, suddenly looking alertly over Bond’s shoulder at the leader of the group. For his part, James stiffened, and muttered a succinct “Bloody hell” before turning slowly. All of the fun that had come from possibly scandalizing the man across the counter vanished, and Bond found the gears in his head locking together and moving, screaming a thousand things to him at once as they ground against each other. The voice insulting him wasn’t Silva, which was good, but nothing good ever came of that tone. Cursing himself for getting distracted and being snuck up on, Bond turned, reaching for one of his revolvers-

“None of that - Q, take the gun and back away slowly,” the speaker immediately barked. Bond had been expecting it. Counting on it, even, just as he was counting on his body hiding the second revolver, which was directly in front of him - his hand was already on it, in fact. Withdrawing his empty hand, conceding the first gun to Q, Bond lifted his blue eyes and put all the frigidity of a Canadian winter into them as he looked up at Q, making it clear how unwise it would be to make an issue of the second gun.

Surprisingly, Q neither looked distressed nor took the second gun, making Bond pause for a split second before his attention was caught away. Q just took a step back, folding his hands, one still gripping one of the revolvers, and leaned against the wall behind him, where he was immediately framed by guns, looking stiff but calm. 

Narrowing his eyes, admittedly a bit surprised by the reaction, Bond shifted those thoughts to the back of his head, prioritizing. He looked over his shoulder, for the first time seeing the men arrayed behind him, easily noting their excitement and fear all tangled up in the way they held themselves, held their guns. “Better?” he rumbled, all of his previous troubles with conversation melting mysteriously away, his voice instead coming with eerie smoothness. He turned around slowly, lifting his hands in a way that stupid people always found reassuring, and didn’t bat an eye as everyone shuffled and tensed like a string of spooked horses. The older man at their center was the calmest, however, and Bond pinned blue eyes on him before the fellow even spoke again.

“Now I will only say this once and you better listen to me carefully, fella, understood?” the man, probably the town sheriff, was still tense, but somehow had the air of someone who thought the situation was almost resolved, and spoke as if addressing a child. “You will go with us to the station and we will resolve this matter in peace, without useless hassle. Off you go!” and he motioned the way with his gun as if there was more exits to this confined space.

This time, Bond didn’t act so cooperatively. He was perfectly aware of the location of his remaining gun in the shadow of his body on the counter behind him, and as he lowered his arms slowly and easily to his sides - feeling the easy movement of his own muscles, judging what was still stiff from being in the saddle, what wasn’t - he calculated how quickly he could grab it and shoot. “How about I don’t?” he said in a low rumble, in a tone that matched the chillness nestled in his eyes.

“If I might remind you,” an icy voice said from behind him, “gentlemen, this is a gun shop. I have a barrel of gunpowder in the corner. If any of you misses, we will be flying through the sky at an ungodly speed in bits, probably taking the surrounding two houses with us.”

‘Damn,’ Bond swore in his head, recalculating rapidly and chastising himself for not realizing that on his own. All that the men across from him saw of his thoughts was probably the thunderously annoyed glower that slipped across his face, though - a decent expression to mask the fact that Bond had a lot of practice at changing his plans at the last second.

The other lawmen looked at each other, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of putting away their guns, but lowered them nonetheless. 

“Alright, boy, you gave us no other choice. Randy, if you would,” he waved to one of the men, a broad shouldered tall guy with no poker face who very clearly did not want to come any closer to Bond if he could avoid it. Still, he obeyed, holstered his gun and moved to grab Bond’s hands to cuff them behind his back. 

Bond watched him come, waiting until that moment when everyone judged him: judged his stillness, his supposedly unarmed state… 

Then moved. 

Even after a long day’s ride, Bond knew exactly how fast he could move, and that he could move brutally fast - and that wasn’t pride talking. The exact second the man, Randy, got within arms’ reach, James grabbed blindly behind him with all the speed of a coiled snake, ignoring what might have been Q shouting something at him. But he didn’t shoot. No, Q had had a valid point in that regard, and as much as it irked James to forego an advantage, he didn’t bring his remaining revolver around to aim and fire - but he didn’t waste it either. Shock registered on Randy’s already worried face, then fear, then nothing at all as Bond used his revolver as a club and took the other man across the jaw. 

In seconds, one man was already down, and James was grimly evaluating his options again. Hollers and shouts were bubbling up from startled throats, sounds preempting chaos that Bond knew all too well, and for a second, his palm itched like a twig hungry for fire - he even flipped the gun in his grip, an easy movement for him, and some of that sensory hunger was assuaged when he felt the warm grip, the nearby trigger. But… Bond growled, recalled Q’s warning reluctantly, and then threw his gun across the room to hit the next nearest opponent between the eyes. It wasn’t as permanent as a bullet, but James was mildly chuffed by his own aim as the man staggered back and sent a table skidding. 

“Get him!” the oldest man bellowed, and the fight was on, James accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to get out of this with a barrage of bullets - although dying in a hail of bullets was still an option. In fact, despite Q’s warning, there was the thunderous blast of a gun going off just a second later. Fortunately, James had lived around guns all his life, as well as the men who wielded them; he’d seen the shotgun barrel swiveling his way, and the look of concentrated fury that usually preempted something stupid… like pulling a trigger in the midst of a gunshop. 

Q also didn't appreciate the idiocracy present in the room.

“Stuart, I will haunt you in the afterlife! Even though we'll both be dead!”

Bond was already dropping his weight, and didn’t flinch as he sensed the bullet going over his head and shattering the window. Uncoiling, Bond charged into the man’s middle, shouldering him off his feet and taking them both to the ground before the ringing of the shot had even faded. 

Training had drilled a lot of things into Bond’s body and mind during the war: he recovered quickly, and immediately disengaged before his latest victim could grab at him. He needed to stay mobile, his instincts told him. And those instincts were priceless, because when James jerked to the side, the butt of the second shotgun slammed into his left shoulder instead of the back of his neck. The explosion of pain made him roar, but he rolled with it, feeling the liquid-metal agony of a joint nearly out of its socket, but somehow his other hand had slithered down to his ankle by the time he rolled to his knees - and from there, it was all reflex again to whip his hand out, a knife now extending past his fingers. Bond was wearing chaps, but the nearest fellow wasn’t, and the denim of his trousers was parted along with the flesh across his knee in seconds. James kept his knives sharp. But Bond was still crouched on the floor, his left arm one throbbing mess, and there was already another man coming up on his other side. 

And apparently the fellow he’d thrown his gun at was more thickheaded than Bond thought: a weight hit him from behind, nearly knocking Bond right over onto his face. 

“Thought you’d killed me, did you, you bastard?” the other man panted furiously in Bond’s ear. When the fellow tried to reach for Bond’s knife, however, Bond reversed the grip and stabbed backwards, at the last second aiming at the reaching hand and not all of the vital organs pressed up against his back. ‘Watch yourself, Bond,’ he felt his admittedly atrophied morals chide him, but the less lethal blow did its work: the man screamed and jerked his hand back, unfortunately dragging the knife with it, as the blade was punched through his palm. 

Bond had another knife in his hand by the time he’d gotten to his feet. He heard someone curse loudly as if this were some sort of dark magic, and in response, Bond grinned a brutal grin with precious little humor in it. He was backed into a corner now, but settled into a crouch and pretended it didn’t bother him, even as he reevaluated and decided that… his left arm was probably fully dislocated. No ‘almost’ about it. “Want to bet that I can gut one of you before you can put me down?” he growled, thunderous and low, just to test out which of his opponents was stupidest. It turned out to be the balding fellow on the left, who - once again - decided to ignore the warning about the gunpowder. This time, Bond didn’t let him shoot, but instead lunged at him. The sudden movement spooked the fellow, and before he could find the guts to pull the trigger, Bond was throwing the knife. Instead of shooting, the man screamed and pulled back. The sad part was, he wasn’t even that badly hurt - Bond’s throwing skills were pretty good, but not perfect, not in hectic circumstances like this, and the blade had just scored the guy’s shoulder. 

The old guy, however, was made of sterner stuff. He broadsided Bond while he was focused on the follow-through of his throw, and the pain of being slammed into on his left side was enough to just about make James scream. Instead of going down, however, he twisted, thinking to go for the gun-

“That would be enough now, thank you!” Q’s angry, raging voice cut through the chaos, this time stilling everyone, and Bond would’ve wondered why the sudden change if he didn't hear the tell tale sound of a trigger cocking behind him. 

“Trust me, Mr. Bond,” Q said dangerously sweetly. “I won’t miss.”

Blood was still thundering in Bond’s ears, vying with the rush of his breathing, the spark of adrenaline. But a swivel of his eyes showed him Q, still standing behind the counter, levelling a shotgun right at him. At this distance, only an incompetent would miss, and Q wasn’t holding the thing like he was unfamiliar with it. That, more than anything, had James exhaling in a soul-deep sigh of resignation, feeling as if he were sinking into his own boots. Damn. 

Slowly, feeling tired and like things could hardly go worse, Bond straightened.

And dropped the third knife that no one had seen him draw until now. It clattered to the ground and was kicked away as the sheriff’s remaining ambulatory men circled up and finally succeeded at handcuffing him. 

All Bond could think was that this whole town was going to die now, because of one wild-haired young man who knew how to wield a shotgun.


	2. In A Cage

While Bond was walked under heavy guard down Mainstreet towards the county jail - and a half-conscious Randy was half-supported, half-dragged along behind them -  Q got a chance to catch up with his father.  Boothroyd looked pretty pleased with himself, as if he’d managed to forget how close the situation had come to ending in massive death and bloodshed.  Even restrained, the blond-haired gunmen ahead of them was radiating the kind of threat that usually only came off mountain lions, and it was hard to imagine how Boothroyd could sense that and yet smile proudly.  

“What the hell is going on?” Q finally cracked. A few minutes ago his whole livelihood AND his life and the life of almost the only family he had were threatened, and all that because of one man that he only briefly registered as a… well, at the time, a potential one night stand. Now he was a definitive threat not just because of the fact that he singlehanded ly almost killed seven men, but also because  _ he knew. _ Granted, he flirted with Q and therefore probably was in the same  boat , but where other men traveling through the town took that as a reason to be  quiet , this man had nothing to lose if he told the sheriff that his only son preferred hot minutes under the counter with individuals of the same sex. 

Q also didn't take kindly to people trying to kill his father.

“I told you about trouble,” Boothroyd said proudly and pointed at Bond’s back in front of them. “He's the trouble. And you!” he turned to Q, even going as far as pointing at him. “Didn't I tell you to go and look at the Wanted poster?! He could've killed you!”

“Father, I am the reason he didn't kill you. All of you! And I also remember you saying it's probably nothing,” Q was almost offended by how Boothroyd still treated him as a child. Almost, because he was used to it by now.

“Didn't it seem suspicious that a stranger walked into your shop the day a wanted gunman was supposed to walk through our town?” asked Boothroyd, annoyed.

“No, it didn't!” Q was seriously pissed now. “My shop is one of the best ones in the country, people travel miles to shop there, strangers, at least once a week! This is not my fault, so stop treating me like it is!”

Boothroyd didn't answer to that.

“Who is he anyway?” asked Q, trying to calm down. It was very possible that the outburst was loud enough for the whole group to hear, and he hated to sound that cocky. Fortunately, everyone seemed preoccupied with different things.

“James Bond is his name,” Boothroyd said. “A veteran, I've heard. After the war, he became a thief and a killer.”

“Wasn't he a killer in the war as well?” Q asked and immediately regretted it, knowing that his father wouldn't appreciate the half joking logic behind it.

“What?” as predicted, Boothroyd wasn't pleased with his son's remark. Q winced.

“Nothing. So he is a criminal.”

“And one of the best gunmen in the west. It's actually an irony we caught him in a gun shop, from all places.”

Whether Bond was the best gunman in the west was as yet unproven, although there was no arguing that he was a fighter, and a terribly good one.  Even after the whirlwind of chaos that had just ended in Q’s shop, the man was walking with a sort of rawboned deadliness to him, something that quite frankly should not have been possible with him being escorted, handcuffed, to jail.  The only evidence of the fight was that he had been holding his left arm a little funny, and had rather obviously bitten off a snarl when that arm was dragged behind his back.   Q was no expert, but he had a feeling that that was what a dislocated arm looked like - but Bond wasn’t complaining.  

There were quite a few people gathered and staring by the time they made it to the jail, and Bond made one final effort to escape just as they tried to get him through the door, and it was shocking what one man could do with his hands handcuffed behind his back.  In fact, by the time they dragged him in, they’d had to relieve him of one more knife, which everyone had thought impossible at this point.  At least no one else got stabbed.  Still, it was quite a relief when they finally had the infamous James Bond behind bars.  No one volunteered to remove the handcuffs, instead wandering out to lick their wounds.  

Q stayed behind, curious what the other man would do, caged like a wild animal. Would he demand the handcuffs to be removed? But Bond seemed to have different problems than the freedom of his hands right now.  After eyeing Q for a moment with those pale blue eyes of his, James stalked towards the bars that separated them.  Instead of speaking, however, or saying something predictably threatening… he rammed his left shoulder forward with enough controlled force that there was a distinct, unsettling pop.  It took Q a startled moment to realize that Bond had just  _ put his dislocated shoulder back into place _ , by himself, and was now leaning against the bars with something like a snarled smile on his face.  

“So, did you stick around just to stare, or are you here to finish our conversation from earlier?” the gunman grunted, a mean edge to his tone this time that he hadn’t had at the start of all this. Q frowned, taken aback. He couldn't even think of where to start listing his reasons from, reasons why that would be a terrible idea. First of all, they were in his father’s territory, where anyone could hear them. Secondly, Bond just performed an incredibly painful act on himself, and his first thought was of sex? Disturbed bugger. Thirdly…

“I don't talk about that sort of stuff with criminals.”

Something flickered in those blue eyes that might have been humor, except it was burnt around the edges.  Still, Bond had the gall to smirk and retort, “Are you sure?  You seemed happy to talk about it earlier, before things got interesting…”  Moving back from the bars, Bond strode about his new cage, canny eyes seeming to take it apart even as he kept speaking, “... Or was I not a criminal before?”

“Just because I didn't know about it, that doesn't mean you weren't a criminal.”

Bond’s back had been turned as Q made the remark, but he spun surprisingly quickly in response, something snapping, hot and frustrated, in his eyes.  His jaw worked for a second, as if he were physically chewing his words, but for a moment he seemed at a loss for them.  “Fine then,” he snapped, tiring of the game but also growing more agitated as he eyed the locked cell door, “Why are you here?  Since clearly it’s not for my company.”  

If Q were anyone else, he might have scared a little at the wild expression in those blue eyes, but he didn't flinch. So this is the real James Bond, the killer and thief, and anything else Q might have seen in him was just an act. A part of him was disappointed - he had a bit of hope for the man, he even liked him, he had to admit. Not just back in the shop, before the arrest, but against his better judgment, even after that. Not many people  could go through so much hassle and pain in the span of fifteen minutes and still not lose their dignity. 

“Nice to finally meet you,” he said in response to Bond’s outburst. “I guess I was curious if you're really a coldblooded killer. Now I see you just well might be.”

Bond made a chuffing noise that wasn’t quite laughter.  “Nice to know that my restraint doesn’t count for anything,” he muttered, moving to sit on the bed.  At first, it seemed like maybe he’d settle down and lose the restlessness, but no: moments later, and he was working his bound hands under himself and past his legs.  It looked like it hurt a helluva lot, what with his left shoulder so recently dislocated, but in surprisingly little time, he had his hands in front of him.  Immediately, he was back to the front of the cell again, and unabashedly testing out the lock with his hands.  He glanced up as if only belatedly noticing that Q was still there - which apparently urged him to clarify, “I could have killed those men, you know.” 

“Oh yes, a beautiful show of mercy. Should I call them back so they can thank you?”

“If they bring the damn key,” was the growled reply.

Q was surprised into laughter but quickly stopped it. He refused to laugh at anything a man in a jail cell would say.  _ Remember, he would have crushed your father’s skull.  _ Yeah, that helped.

“No use for hands in this situation anyway.” Then, as an afterthought, “You should rest that shoulder when you have the chance.”

“So that’s a no on the key then?” Bond asked and perhaps there was a touch of wryness.  Instead of listening to the advice, the blond-haired gunmen then went to stand on the cot and inspect the barred window, even going so far as to tug at the bars with quite a generous bit of force - and then hiss as his shoulder protested.  

_ Crap, you really can't follow even the simplest instructions, can you? _

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Bond, or are you just craving some fresh air?” he asked maliciously. 

This time, the response he got was a snarl.  

Right at that the door to the office opened and two people stepped in - Boothroyd and Randy, who has regained his consciousness but looked beaten into the ground. There was a big black hole where his eye was normally, and blood on the side of his head. Q didn't really have much compassion for him. Randy wasn't the brightest man he knew, and in case the town ever found out about Q’s sexuality, he would be the first to beat him up. Nasty fella.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Bond?” asked Boothroyd with absolute zero interest in an honest answer. “Is your room to your satisfaction?”

If Q had thought Bond’s expression was cold before, now it was… well, downright murderous.  However, his voice slipped out smoothly as he replied in kind, “I would have preferred something a bit roomier.”  He added with a pointed look Q’s way, “But at least the view is nice.”

Q’s blood froze in his veins. He looked at his father, and the disgust in his face made his stomach turn.

“Good to see criminals really have no morals.” He turned back to Bond. “Disgusting, really.”

Instead of looking offended, something flickered in Bond’s eyes, and it was almost as if the color lightened with interest - or with challenge.  Bond ambled forward to lean against the bars, still-cuffed hands dangling out, although both Boothroyd and Randy had a moment of surprise when they recalled that those hands had been behind Bond when this had all started.  “Well, I figured that if you were going to label me as an amoral criminal, I may as well speak my mind,” Bond replied glibly as if only Q were in the room.

“Well, speak your mind silently!” Q hissed, stepping closer to the bars, getting into Bond’s face. 

Bond’s smile spread, and that was the only warning before the man moved more quickly than just about anything Q had seen in his life: scarred, powerful hands were suddenly tangled in Q’s shirt-collar, dragging him up against the bars with a ferocious amount of strength.  There was immediate shouting and panic from Q’s father and from Randy, but all Q could see was a grim, tanned face and eyes that looked like they’d been carved out of a winter sky, distant and unforgiving.  Even with his hands cuffed and with bars between them, Bond was dangerous, and Q couldn’t breathe-!

But then the ice in those blue eyes thawed, and something painful and regretful and… almost defiant entered them.  Before anyone else could do anything, Bond, from close enough that Q could feel his breath, murmured, “I’m not a monster,” and released.  

Q breathed out, not moving from the spot, still looking into that face, trying to find a clue to the sudden attack, but couldn't find any. He would have stayed there longer if someone hadn't grabbed him from behind and pulled him back, and he realized that the other two men were still cursing Bond. Q flinched when Randy waved a long iron stick in front of his face and hit the bars, making Bond jump back in irritation.

“You are just adding to your charges, Bond,” Boothroyd told him. “I have already sent out a letter to Tucson, but I will remember every single offense and will gladly refer them all to the authorities when they arrive.”

“And what offenses are those?” Bond snarled, keeping out of Randy’s reach just barely.  He sounded as exasperated as he did angry, going on, “And what fucking  _ proof _ do you have besides wild rumors?”

“Charges of multiple murder, theft, robbery, and those must be nothing since you have already attacked town lawmen and my son, and seemingly enjoy sodomy, and all that in under an hour! I have messages of your activities from several nearby towns which warned me of you!” he was fuming angrily by now, and Q had to step away from him to escape his bad breath right next to his face. 

Bond made a face, and grumbled almost inaudibly, “...Okay, some of those might be true.”  He raised his voice and his eyes snapped to Boothroyd’s like one of his thrown knives as he stalked up to the bars again, “But where do you get off on calling me a murderer when I was in the fucking  _ Civil War _ ?  Of course I bloody murdered people!”  His Virginian accent thickened as he got angry, gripping the bars.  

“If you think that anything you say will change your position, you are gravely mistaken,” Boothroyd said resolutely.

“I want to hear it.”

The whole room looked at Q as if he were crazy. Boothroyd was frowning angrily, Randy in confusion and Bond curiously.  In fact, the gunman even raised an eyebrow and asked incredulously, “You do?”  

“Yes,” Q made a step towards the bars again. “Surely you aren't as stupid as to think you can lie yourself out of prison. And we are intelligent enough to know if you're making sense. Go on then. What could we be so wrong about it that you would need to correct us?”

For a second, Bond didn’t do anything but blink at him.  Then, glancing between Bothroyd and Q as if to see whether the old man would drown Q out - which he didn’t, although he looked ready to pop a blood vessel in his head - cleared his throat and reiterated cautiously, “I have killed people, it’s true, but only in the line of duty-”

“What about after the war?” Boothroyd interrupted sharply.

Bond was quick to defend this time, “-Or in self-defense.  I’ve been a hired gun from time to time, but that’s it.  I’m not looking for people to kill.”  Seeming to realize that Q was the closest thing he had to a listening audience, what with Boothroyd scoffing at him now, James switched his attention entirely to the bespectacled young man, taking a deep breath and continuing with steady control, “Look, most of what those wanted posters say was spread by a man called Raoul Silva - a real killer who is headed this way right now.  I came to Tombstone to head him off.”  Bond glanced around him, losing his professionalism to glower and mutter with lead-thick sarcasm, “Which went terribly well.”

Q frowned, but not because he didn't believe Bond - he learned never to believe anything unless he had seen proof of it himself. The world had seemed to condemn Bond for a reason, but Q would rather make his own opinion. The world as an entity was rarely right about things.

“I have never heard of anyone named Raoul Silva.”

“Then that means you have an incompetent person in charge of your Wanted posters,” Bond said flatly and with a glare at the sheriff, although at least he didn’t follow through with the verbal attack, “I fought alongside Silva in the War, but he didn’t take to peace quite as well as the rest of us did.  I lost track of him for a few years, then found out that he’s been happily killing anyone who looks at him crooked.  He’s running a pretty impressive gang…”  Bond hesitated, eyed Q with distrust in his eyes, and then seemed to take a leap of faith and added more quietly, “...And tried to recruit me about three months ago.”

“So you are admitting…!” Boothroyd started victoriously, but Q cut in.

“Tried, Father!” he looked from him to Bond again. “Go on.”

The wary look became something resembling relief; Bond’s mouth moved just a hair, but it was the most real looking smile that Q had seen thus far.  Then Bond sobered, seeming to age. “Silva would be on more Wanted posters, except for the fact that he doesn’t just waste his time rustling cattle or holding up banks,” Bond said, voice suddenly so low that it was like a vibration in the air, and seemed to demand silence and stillness, “He wipes out entire towns.  Witnesses are hard to come by.”

Boothroyd snorted so hard Q could see spit land on the ground, and Randy took it as a cue to start laughing in that dumb style of his that Q associated with geese. “Don't you think it would make the news if a whole town was wiped out?”

Randy thought (through a series of steps Q would never understand the logic of) that the fact the sheriff didn't like the story of their prisoner warranted him shoving the stick through the bars and to slam into Bond’s body, still laughing.  At least Bond’s already injured left side wasn’t the closest thing within reach, but the man was still caught off-guard, jumping back with a snarl of pain as Randy caught him across the ribs. Q pressed his lips into a line and reached for the stick, yanking it out of Randy’s hands, which made the gorilla finally stop laughing.

Standing a bit further back from the bars, but looking appreciatively at Q now, Bond returned to his tale and answered Boothroyd’s question, too, “Because Silva’s not an idiot.  He knows that without a war, killing en masse is harder, so he always creates a cover story.  He’s poisoned wells just to make it look like a bunch of natural deaths.”  Bond blinked, considering, and added with the kind of callousness that only came from surviving a war, “Hiding the bullet-holes gets harder, but only until the bodies start to rot, but when he picks small towns in the middle of nowhere, no one notices until it’s too late anyway.”  Ignoring the way that everyone was staring at him with no small amount of horror now, Bond looked down at his cuffed hands consideringly, and finished, “It helps that Silva had the whole war to learn how to be manipulative, so he’s entirely capable of turning people against each other just by claiming that one town has struck silver or something.”  Bond looked up, eyes almost reptilian in their coldness, allowing him to add unflinchingly, “You’d be surprised how fast people will kill each other over something like that.”

The men exchanged glances. The fact was that Tombstone was funded in its beginnings thanks to an incredible amount of silver found in the area. Where it was now no one knew, but some people believed that the bank held everything that was left after building the city, and some were still going to the mining spots and looking for anything the founders overlooked. 

Focusing back on Q again, brows lowering, Bond added with what might have been real concern, “And you  _ do _ have one of the best gunshops in the county, so makes sense why Silva’s targeting Tombstone next.  He’ll make a beeline for your place, just to get the party started with a bang.”

Q straightened his back. If that was true… if that was true, he was not as safe in his future as he thought he was. Actually, if that was true, no one's future was safe, and they all needed to start planning a counter attack and avoid the water and that was impossible and the food and anything that could kill a person and… Q had to take a breath. Bond was manipulating them. This was crazy. He had overheard them talking on the way to the jail and was using that information to play on their soft sides, and Q was the obvious target because he gave him leeway no one else did. His story had to be made up. Because if it wasn't… they were screwed.

“Don’t believe me?” Bond pressed ruthlessly, as if he could read minds - and considering all the other creepy skills the man had, why not one more?  “Wait around a few days.  I’m only ahead of Silva because I nearly rode my horse into the ground, but I know he’s coming here.”

“Why?” Q asked and now he was almost aggressive, going after answers to find a reason why not to believe him… or believe him anyway. “Why would you go after him if he's so dangerous? Why is he so important to you? Why don't you just tell this to the authorities and let them deal with it?”

Speaking with exaggerated delicateness, Bond flicked his eyes pointedly to Q’s father and said, “I’m going to decline answering that last question for the sake of my health.”  Then, because clearly Bond was a bastard regardless of what else he was, the gunmen went on blatantly, “The sheriff there might be as dirty as all the other lawmen I’ve had to deal with over the years, so I’d rather not offend him, lest I mysteriously shoot myself in the middle of the night.”

Q ground his teeth. “Watch that, Bond, you're talking about my father,” he hissed. “I'll ask again - why you?”

While Bond had probably earned a metaphorical point for overhearing Q’s (rightful) bragging about his gunshop, Q deserved at least two points now, because it was clear that Bond hadn’t realized the father-son connection until now.  Under other circumstances, it would have been comical to see the way Bond’s eyebrows winged upwards towards his hairline, and the way he took a step back, physically as well as mentally unbalanced for a second.  “Your-?” Bond started to repeat, then looked between the two, frowning.  Ignoring Q’s question, he muttered rather judgmentally, “I’ve got to say, I don’t see the family resemblance.”

Q raised the iron bar in his hand threateningly.

“Fine, fine,” Bond relented, raising his bound hands, palms forward.  Back on track, he answered, “The reason I haven’t turned tail and run the other way is because I’ve got a score to settle with Silva, and I know that I’ve got the skills to do it… present condition notwithstanding.”  He indicated his incarcerated state with obvious displeasure, once again resembling a caged predator of some sort.  

“What scores?” the question came from Boothroyd, who was getting impatient. Q was honestly surprised he hadn't started shouting yet.

Blue eyes slid dangerous Boothroyd’s way, and there was the sullen, dangerous gunman again.  After a drawn-out silence, however, Bond seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to get anywhere this way, so with a sort of heaviness, he drew in a breath.  When he spoke again, it was slow and unexpectedly soft, “Silva killed someone I loved very dearly.”  His eyes cut Q’s way, briefly and unreadably, but Q thought he saw a flash of very deep, very real pain.  “Silva doesn’t like it when people tell him no.  I paid a steep price for not joining his gang.”

“Are we supposed to cry?” asked Boothroyd mockingly. “You don't believe him, son, do you?”

Q didn't respond. They still held gazes, the two of them, blue eyes and hazel eyes, and he had hard time deciding what to say to his father. Q didn't believe people's stories. He always supposed they could be lying, that at least a part of their story wasn't true for any reason. But he also trusted his guts and his guts trusted Bond.

“This is ridiculous,” Boothroyd said. “I'm going to have lunch. Randy?” Randy perked up at the chance to eat, and was by the door quicker than Boothroyd himself. “Q?”

Q bit his lip as he always did when being torn between what's rational and what feels right, and turned his back on Bond.

“Can I have the key to his handcuffs?” he asked. When Boothroyd seemed like he was going to protest, Q just pushed. “He deserves to have both hands mobile, come on, we're not monsters.”

Boothroyd made a face but complied, taking the little key from his belt. He threw it to Q and Q caught it in the air.

“I'll be with you shortly,” he said. Again, Boothroyd looked like he wanted to say something, but then just waved a dismissive hand and left, looking like he bit into a lemon. Randy followed.

Q turned and avoided looking into Bond’s face while he stuck his hands through the bars and unlocked the lock on his cuffs.  Bond watched him with surprise and curiosity the whole while, as if not quite believing this turn of events.  At least he didn’t make any other sexual innuendos - although when he had his hands free, he did step back, rubbing his wrists, to say jauntily, “Splendid.  Well, that saves me the trouble of dislocating one of my thumbs.”

Q shook his head in amusement. 

“I swear to God… one of us must be crazy.”

That smirk was back, although this time it just tugged at one side of Bond’s mouth, charming and lopsided.  “Well, I’m pretty sure that everyone who just left the room thinks that the crazy one is you, for removing the handcuffs of the brutal murderer-” Bond indicated himself briefly. “-But I won’t judge.  Although…”  Pretending disinterest as he let his sentence hang, Bond used his new freedom to untuck his shirt, something that made absolutely no sense until Q realized that the gunman was checking out his side where Randy had jabbed him: tanned skin, littered with scars, was revealed as Bond drew his shirt up, muscles quivering and tightening as the man took note of the newest bruise.  Bond grunted in displeasure, the little exhale doing interesting things to his toned abdominal muscles, then finished his sentence belatedly, “...I’m a bit curious myself about your sudden benevolence.”

Q sucked in a breath, his head slightly spinning. Stretched out like this, Bond’s ribs were clearly visible, the skin stretched across the bones littered with bruises, old and new, that did things to Q’s body. He bit his lip again, this time to shut up whatever sound was trying to come out of his mouth, and it hurt a bit, which, unsurprisingly, didn't make the arousal growing in his stomach less prominent. He looked up after some time, remembering himself, and found out Bond was smiling at him.

“I have a feeling,” Bond murmured, clearly tongue-in-cheek, “that now is still not the time for me to make sexual innuendos.  Or am I wrong?”  The smile became a full smirk, as Bond finished, “I’ll happily do whichever has the highest likelihood of getting me out of here before all hell breaks loose.”  

Q felt a stab of anger at himself for allowing Bond to see how affected he was. 

“I'll tell you what surely isn't the way to break free - admitting to mind games to get out. And where would you go? You came here to save us and kill this Silva guy, you say, but you can't stay in the town if you run. So what would you do?”

The smile shifted, became something less charming but perhaps more appreciative.  Bond even dipped his head in a small nod, an almost respectful motion - if one could respect someone for calling them out.  “And neither can I do a damn thing if I’m behind bars,” Bond pointed out, tucking his shirt back in.  While that covered up his toned middle, it just served to bring attention to the flexing strength of his shoulders as he moved.  “So, in a nutshell, I’ll do just about anything short of killing if it means I can get out of here and put a few bullet-holes in Silva’s mangy hide,” he informed Q with perfect bluntness.  

Som ehow , this made Q feel like he was finally talking to a real man and not a paper cut out. Apart from the story about Silva killing someone Bond loved and the several angry outbursts, Bond was a player, Q knew that. 

“Thank you for the honesty,” he said without a trace of mocking in his voice.

“Letting me out of here would be nicer than a ‘thank you’.”

“You can't actually expect me to do that,” Q said. 

The smile faded and Bond was back at the bars again, all broad shoulders and tension as he gripped them.  “I’m not fooling around, Q,” he snapped, “Silva’s going to be here by tomorrow, if not within hours - and if I’m not mistaken, that bast-”  Bond quickly backtracked, finding a better term for Q’s father, “-The sheriff has no interest in doing anything about it.  So what do you expect me to do?”  There was a fire behind those blue eyes, angry but also a bit wild, desperate.  “Sit here and wait like a rabbit in a hutch?”

Q ruffled his hair with one hand in clear consternation.

“I… I don't know. I can't help you. I'm sorry.” He turned around and almost had a heart attack when he realized that the cell apposite Bond’s was occupied.

The man in it was none other than Bill Tanner, the very person Q had been defending to his father that morning.  The fellow looked a bit worse for wear, but as good as could be expected from a man who’d been spending his nights in jail, and hadn’t been doing incredibly well outside of it prior to that.  Still, his eyes were alert, and he appeared to have been watching all of the proceedings quite avidly - if silently.  

“Hi Bill,” Q said in a voice higher than normally.

The other man raised a hesitant hand and obediently replied, “Hi, Q.”

“Friend of yours?” Bond asked, pacing now and unimpressed.  

Q didn't know what to say. If he was getting anyone out of prison, it would have been Bill just two hours ago. Now there were two men jailed by his father and he didn't know what to do. This day was a disaster.

“Bye, Bill,” he said finally and walked to the door.

“...Bye, Q,” he just barely heard Tanner call after him, still too stunned by all he’d seen to manage anything better.  

He also heard Bond shouting after him, significantly more thunderously, before the closed door cut off the sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Dora: If any of you noticed, we included a little scene from Lethal Weapon 2, when Riggs shows everyone that he can dislocate his shoulder on a whim. This was done mostly because I absolutely love the LW films and when I sent the scene on youtube to Truth, she thought it would fit Bond's character, so we put it there :D


	3. The Pale King

Bond snarled and slammed a hand against the bars as soon as the door slammed, the finality of it all making it clear that it wouldn’t open again.  “Fucking hell,” he snapped, and went on to swear fluently and colorfully as he paced around his cage.  “A cage I’m likely to die in,” he murmured furiously to himself.  

“Pardon?”  

Having forgotten about the unassuming man in the cell across the way, James swiveled, narrowing his eyes and bristling threateningly before realizing that it wouldn’t make this situation any better.  The broad-shouldered gunman deflated.  “What are you in for?” he gruffly tried to make conversation, if only to make up for his hard-eyed look.

“Stealing,” the fellow answered, sounding too apologetic to be a hardened criminal.  “My name’s Bill Tanner.  What about you?”  Making an awkward gesture, Tanner qualified, “Well, I guess I already know the charges against you.”

“And what do you think of them?” Bond asked from behind an opaque expression.  

Tanner shrugged.  “I’m not an expert at the law, so I don’t want to have an opinion on it.”  When Bond hummed, taking that as a better answer than the downright disbelief he’d been hit with already, the other man added unexpectedly, “But Q’s sharp as a whip, and I think he believed you.”

James scoffed, stung just by the reminder of Q’s reaction - or even of his name.  Having known the bespectacled young man for all of an hour, he could already guess that Q had a good head on him, but he was also pretty sure that he was getting nowhere with the man.  “Yes, he believed me so much that he left me in here,” he groused.  

“You have to realize that Q’s a thinker first and a doer second,” Tanner struggled to explain, and if nothing else, Bond appreciated the distraction: he’d much, much rather be thinking about Q than about the impending arrival of Silva.  

When Tanner paused, Bond came forward to lean against the bars, making an expectant sound and tipping his head.  “Yes, and?”

“Oh,” Tanner said with a completely straight face, “I was just waiting for you to make some joke about Q thinking about and doing you.”

Despite the dire circumstances, Bond found himself coughing out a laugh, and then chuckling outright.  “I didn’t think my sick brand of humor was appreciated,” Bond eventually regained himself to say cautiously, still smiling, intrigued now.  

“By most, probably not,” Tanner admitted, and quickly raised his hands, “And not by me!  I’m married!  To a woman!”  Bond started laughing again, a bit more wickedly, and the poor thief flushed and frowned at him before trying to find some semblance of professionalism in the conversation, “I’m just saying to give Q time.”

“To think about me, or about my warning?”

“Both?” Tanner offered uncertainly.  “The sheriff is his father, so it’s not like he can just throw caution to the wind without consequences, even if he did want to.”

Bond couldn’t help it, and smirked as he revised his previous question to give it again in another form, “Even if he did want to… do me, or let me out of here?”

“Now you’re just being a bastard.”

“I’m told that I’m good at that.”

“Well, if Q tells you that, just… don’t write him off,” Tanner pressed with surprising sincerity.  When Bond cocked an eyebrow at him, the other prisoner sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and just spat it out, “Look, my wife loves Q the way a lot of people love pets, and she wants him to be happy.  And she might have mentioned that he has the kind of affections that most folks can’t talk about in public, so I’m…”  Tanner seemed to realize something, eyes looking at nothing and mouth turning down in a frown as he muttered to himself, “Fuck, what am I doing?”

“You appear,” Bond purred smoothly, but had to admit that he was pleased, “to be setting him up with a man accused of multiple murders, theft, robbery, and probably soon sodomy.”  Sighing, Bond turned away before Tanner could sputter out an answer, sobering as he looked at the slices of the sky outside, which he couldn’t reach.  “Don’t worry about it, Tanner.  Chances are, by tomorrow, it’ll be a moot point.  Because we’ll all be  _ dead _ .”

~^~

Q walked through the town to his shop, slower than he normally would. The whole conversation was playing through his mind, over and over, and he was desperately trying to ferret out the parts that sounded dishonest and those he was inclined to believe.

He berated himself silently for even thinking about it. This wasn't his business. He had no say in who stay ed in prison and who  didn’t . And as he knew from so many conversations with his father, even if he did try to get Bond out, Boothroyd would never listen to him. This whole situation was ridiculous.

Only when he stepped into his shop did he realize that he ’d forgot about lunch, and by then he was in no mood to go back and join his father and Randy. He found an old apple in his bag under the counter and ate that instead.

The next few hours he spent by finally finishing the restocking and trying not to think about the muscles under James Bond’s shirt. Q was only human, no one could blame him for fantasizing about strong men with icy blue eyes and the skills of a trained killer. Alright, the church could blame him for the first and his father for the second, but Q had a complicated relationship with both.

It was just before the sun set, shortly before Q usually closed the shop, when the door opened again and a tall and broadly built man sauntered in.  Impeccably dressed for a place like this, in pale colors most people avoided because of how quickly the world dirtied them, he looked like some exotic thing of ivory: dressed in a cream vest and white shirt, with a shock of almost colorless blond hair pushed back from his face.  The most noticeable feature he had, however, was a wide mouth that immediately stretched into an almost unsettlingly broad smile as he fixed his gaze on Q.  “Well now,” the man spoke, voice amused and almost musical with an accent that was hard to place, as canted eyes stroked along Q, “They’re stocking awfully pretty things behind the counter.”

Q almost laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of his day. He must be dreaming, right? There was no way he could have had two customers in one day, both strangers, and both hitting on him. Or  was he just so desperately horny that he  saw flirting in everything?  Would he think Randy  was flirting with him when he  saw him next? That would just be the last straw. OrThat would be a sign to go to church.

“Evening,” he sighed tiredly. “How can I help you?”

The larger man made a tsking noise, but came the rest of the way in, approaching the counter with a stride that was swift and almost unsettlingly confident.  “I was hoping to talk to the owner of this establishment, but in the meantime, was hoping for some nice conversation, but it seems to be falling flat,” he said, with a slight hardening to his tone that suggested this was Q’s fault.  

Q’s eyebrows shot upwards. He was tired of idiots who thought they could walk all over him, people who underestimated him, and those who looked at him as if they could see through his clothes, and this man somehow in one sentence embodied all of that. 

“I think you must have walked into the wrong establishment, then, sir, the saloon is three houses over. People have all sorts of nice conversations there. Here, people buy guns. And they only ever speak to the owner.”

The pale-haired man’s eyes flashed: he’d been caught off-guard, although it only lasted a second.  For that second, his face went entirely expressionless in a way that was nearly impossible, like a slate wiped clear.  It left the man looking almost reptilian before he affixed a new smile in place, this one just a bit  _ less _ ingratiating than before.  “Apologies,” he said nonetheless, “I’m used to dealing with the old - but the new must win out, hm?  You know…”  Silva’s tone warmed up a bit again, like a machine being put to work until it lost its iron chill, and he watched his own hand as he ran his fingertips over the countertop.  His hand was scarred like Bond’s.  “I have noticed, actually, that when someone as young as you gains a position of power, it’s generally through ingenuity and skill.  Am I correct?”  When the pale-haired man looked up again, the smile was broader than before, the machine fully warmed up.  

Q thought Silva might have been trying to compliment him there but for some reason he couldn't see how that would ever work on anyone. It was possibly just because he was so irritated, but the man was giving him the impression of a giant turd painted gold.

“I'm sorry, Mr. …?”

“Silva,” the man replied smoothly, like a large, contented cat, “Raoul Silva.  And whose acquaintance do I have the pleasure of making in return?”

Q froze. Silva. Surely not the man Bond was... but this would be too much of a coincidence. So maybe Bond was telling the truth after all. Or maybe… maybe it was all completely different and Bond  was the villain and this man  was...

Q looked at Silva again, at the way he held himself, the arrogant look in his eyes. No, this man was not good news. Bond might be a villain, but this man was definitely not a victim.

“Mr. Silva,” Q tried to sound as if nothing had changed. “I am sorry but I was about to close the shop. I would appreciate it if we made any transactions quickly. So again, how can I help you?”

That grin widened, spreading further than seemed physically possible, as if someone had in the past slashed across Silva’s face and he was now just opening up the scar.  “I have a list, actually,” he purred in a genteel tone, and reached into his shirt pocket for a piece of paper, revealing an impressive, holstered revolver as the motion swept back his coat.  He slid the paper across the counter, tapping it and showing a very long list of ammunition requests. Q fought hard not to narrow his eyes suspiciously at it.

“Of course,” he took the paper and looked at it, skimming over the list of ammunition. Enough for a party of five for a month, ten for two weeks, fifteen for a few days… but there were seven different kinds of bullets there, so it was definitely not for just one person. 

“I have some of these here in the shop, but I won't be able to sell you all of this today,” he looked up at Silva, desperately hoping the man believed him. “My order from Tucson should come tomorrow morning though, so if you are able and willing to wait, you could stop by after midday?”

The smile had faded.  It was not unlike watching Bond’s expressions freeze over, but with Bond, there was nearly always something beneath: determination, anger, or at least a kind of incredible focus.  But in Raoul Silva’s face, the cooling of his expression created… a gaping nothingness.  Silva, Q realized, had dead eyes when he wasn’t filling them up with fox-fire and smiles.  “I’m a busy man, Mr…?”

“Boothroyd,” he said, immediately cursing himself for making a connection between himself and his father. But if he gave him a fake name and Silva found out, he would be suspicious. “I can sell you what I have on hand,” he said then. “If you can't make it, you can't make it. I'm sure there's another shop in whatever town you visit next. Or, if you're staying, I'll be here every day.”

“Oh, I’m staying,” Silva said, “It’s quite a charming town.  How about…”  He slid his finger down the list to one item: ammunition that would go very well in the gun he wore at his hip and had revealed a moment ago.  “...Just this one for now.  You see, I think that box just behind you looks like it contains what I need.”  

Q followed the motion of his finger and then turned to take the box off the shelf. He was lucky it was the most common ammunition for revolvers and that he was stocking all the others under the counter, otherwise Silva would have seen right through him. He turned back with the box in his hands and counted out the amount of bullets Silva’s list demanded.

“Quarter and a bit,” he said as he pushed them towards Silva.

~^~

He knocked urgently at the door to his father’s bedroom and walked in without waiting for an answer. Boothroyd was lying in his bed with a book on his lap, dressed in an old night  g own and covered by a blanket that had also seen better times. Q closed the door behind himself before stating his business. He already knew that talking to his father would be difficult, but who else could help?

“Bond was telling the truth,” he said before Boothroyd had the chance to ask what the hell was going on. “I saw Silva, and he was trying to buy ammunition for a whole regiment. The town might be in danger.”

Boothroyd frowned and put the book away.

“What are you talking about?”

“Silva!” Q almost shouted but quickly got a hold of himself. “The man Bond said kills everyone in his way to money! If he's here, maybe we shouldn't be jailing Bond after all. He said he came for Silva, let's give him a chance to take him down before…”

“I've had just about enough!” Boothroyd suddenly stood up in anger. “What is wrong with you, boy?! In one day you have asked me twice to forgive criminals! To let them go! I didn't raise you this way.”

“But Father, if the town is in danger…”

“If the town is in danger, I am here to protect it. It's my job! We have enough strong brave men to fight off anyone who stands in our way, we don't need a murderer we know nothing about to help us. The only thing you can do is ensure that you are there to help when we need help!”

Q was fuming. He felt like he was five again, completely under his father’s thumb. For years his father had been stomping his potential into the ground, dismissing him as a stupid child, even though Q had realized a long time ago that he mentally beat his father when he was ten. He was always trying to excuse him in his head, think of all his positives, trying to be humble… but right now the thought of his intellect filled him with viciousness. His father was blind. He didn't see the broader picture, could only see the world in black and white and only by the rules he was taught as a child. But there was more to life than rules, and rules sometimes couldn't solve the complicated life they applied to. 

“Fine!” he said and left the room with a slam of the door. 

There was a little box on the opposite wall where the sheriff stored all his important possessions. The box had a complicated lock which Q had figured out how to open when he was twelve. He walked to that box now and opened it in the matter of seconds, revealing three sets of keys, some documents, money, and a few personal things. He took the set of keys he knew was to the sheriff's office, and closed the box, leaving promptly.

The office was empty and dark, the sun had set a while ago and Randy had already gone home. No one was guarding the prisoners, because it was a rare occasion that they had two of them at the same time, Tombstone was a calm town without much drama. Q was probably stirring up more drama right now than the town had ever seen. 

He walked to Bond’s cell. The man was visible as a long, lean shape stretched out across the cell’s sparse bunk, giving all the appearance of being asleep, but Q instantly saw the faint gleam of eyes opening, alert and aware.  Hands came down from behind Bond’s head, where they’d formed a makeshift pillow, instead serving to now push the gunman into a sitting position.  “Q?”  Bond sounded confused, but quite awake.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Silva came to my shop,” Q said in a rush. “You need to tell me again why I should let you out. What can you do no one in this town can?”

Bond was immediately off the bed and at the front of the cell, intense and earnest instead of threatening for once.  He gripped the bars and said in a fervent growl, “You need someone who can take Silva out before the bastard turns this place into a warzone - and I can do that.  I don’t know what kind of gunslingers you have in this town, but I’m better.”  It would have been a pretty prideful statement, if it weren’t said in the tone Bond was using: it was as sure and unwavering as steel.  He wasn’t bragging, he was stating a tried and true fact.  Bond went on just as sternly, “You need a marksman like me, because Silva’s not bad with a gun either, and believe me when I say he’ll kill anyone he so much as thinks is drawing on him.”

Q was outright chewing his lip now. He had the keys behind his back, and they were ringing against each other as he played with then nervously. 

“I need you to promise me something,” he said finally. “you won't kill him unless necessary. We will bring him in and put him to jail. And you will prove you don't belong here, otherwise I'm putting you next to him.”

Eyes that were all but colorless in the dark narrowed, and even if Bond’s expression didn’t express belligerence, it was clear by the tautening of his muscular silhouette that he wasn’t thrilled with the proposition.  “Q, you don’t know that bastard like I do,” Bond hissed, pressing closer, trying to get his point across, “Believe me, it’s _ going to be necessary _ .”

Q pressed in the same way. “I guess I'll see with my own eyes how necessary it is. I'm coming with you.”

“What?  No-”

“I have the keys, Bond,” Q said in an ironclad voice. “I own the fully stocked gun shop. I know where all the food is. I know the surrounding area. Take it or leave it, but I'm not letting you free without supervision.”

That drew the gunman up short.  He stood where he was, just blinking, as if wondering when Q had suddenly become this bossy creature before him.  However, after a beat, his frown went from one of consternation to one of accepting determination, and he nodded sharply. “Fine, but you’d better not get in the way.”  

Q gave him a dry look.

“I'll do what I want.”

“Little shit,” Bond muttered under his breath and rolled his eyes,  but he stood back and let Q approach the door and unlock the cell.   As soon as the key did its work, the gunman was pushing his way out, as eager to get free as water boiling from a pot, although his gaze remained steely and controlled; focused.  He didn’t wait for Q to get out of the way, instead pushing past him with a heavy brush of shoulders, his strength evident in the easy way he eased Q aside.  For a moment after that, however, he just stood deep in Q’s personal space, face in shadow but clearly looking at Q.  

“Thank you,” he finally rumbled, the words sounding foreign in his mouth.

Q took a few seconds to breathe through the feelings the physical contact caused in his stomach and lower, and then turned only to have it all punched out.

How did he keep  _ forgetting _ ?!

“Bill,” he said as the other man calmly looked at him from behind the bars. Q’s first priority in this jail just a few hours ago. Eve’s husband. Whose sister was very pregnant and very poor. Who did NOT deserve to be here. Q would be really crossing the line if he got him out… but  wasn’t he already? He had let out a possible murderer. This warranted a sentence. What was one more crime now?

He crossed the short distance to Bill's cell and unlocked it.

“Go to your wife, Bill. She needs you. Just  _ please _ don't let them catch you again. And if you could, try not to steal.”

Tanner looked startled, and just sat there for a few minutes.  Just as he opened his mouth for what was probably going to be an argument, however, James came up to Q’s shoulder - silent as a ghost, but Q felt the warmth of him a split second before his low voice said, “Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, Tanner.  Just leave.  And maybe leave town for a bit with your wife.”

“I’m not sure that skipping town is really an option…” Tanner hedged, then gave in, hopping up with quite a bit of alacrity given his sketchy leg and slipping out into freedom, too.  Then, surprisingly, he looked between Bond and Q before settling on the former.  “About what I said-”

Bond for some reason chuckled.  “I promise not to use my new knowledge for evil,” the man said glibly. Q looked confused from one another, but let it be for the sake of a quick escape.

“Alright, we need to get some food and then we'll go to the shop. Bond, follow me. Bill… good luck.”

~^~

They had to be very careful. The town was silent, but all the fun was in the saloon and anyone wandering from or to the saloon could see them and ask questions. The only thought Q hated more than that of going to jail for letting those two out, was to go to jail without ever accomplishing anything.

They went to the shop first. 

“Take anything you want but you'll pay for the ammunition and give me the guns back when we're done,” Q said as they entered the small shop. He himself went to the backroom and came back with a bundle of bags which he started filling with everything from the shelves.

Bond was sighting down a revolver of the same model as the one they’d left behind in the sheriff’s custody, and had another already in a holster at his hip.  “I’ve got three questions, Q,” Bond said without seeming to switch his attention from judging the gun, “Well, a ton of questions, actually, but two pressing ones.”

“I'm listening,” Q said distractedly while putting whole ammo boxes into the bags.

“What are the chances of us breaking back into jail to get my own revolvers?”

Q sighed.

“Can be done, but you'll wait outside. Next?”

Nodding to accept that amiably enough, Bond nonetheless slipped the revolver presently in his hand into a holster for now.  The man had a clear aversion to being unarmed, even for a little while.  “Second question: what the devil are you doing with all of those guns?  I’m good, and you seem able to handle a gun, but there’s no way the two of us can shoot all those.”

Q closed and tied one bag, only to crouch down and start filling another one with the contents of the lower shelves. “Silva wanted to buy ammunition today and I told him I'm expecting a delivery tomorrow. He'll be back. I'm not leaving my livelihood in his greasy hands, and this town needs a means of self defense if you are right. We'll leave the guns at the station.”

Now Bond turned to look at him, and if Q wasn’t mistaken, he looked impressed.  “All right, third question…”  Striding closer, looking with idle curiosity at the bags of weaponry, Bond seemed to consider a moment before asking with all gravity, “Why are you really trusting me?  Just a few hours ago and you’d have as soon trusted me as a rabid dog.”  Without a flicker of change to his expression to give Q warning, Bond unholstered one revolver and had it aimed at Q’s forehead, whereupon he said without feeling, “What turned me from a rabid dog into someone you trust to work with you?”

Q straightened out of his hunched over position and looked up into the blue eyes of the man above him. As he shifted, the gun shifted with him. He considered his answer, not knowing how to explain the feeling in his gut, the one telling him that whatever Bond was, he was not the enemy compared to the threat Silva seemed to pose, and… and if he were honest with himself, Q might have been spectacularly wrong and about to pay for it. 

He stood up, slowly and gracefully swinging back to his feet, getting them under him, and pushing himself up from his knees until he was the same level as Bond, the gun shifting from his forehead to his temple as he moved, but never breaking contact with his skin.

“You are still a dog, Bond,” he said calmly. “If you like the metaphor. Because dogs are like people. They can bite you for a piece of meat or they can be loyal and friendly. And dogs try their owners’ limits. Just like people do,” he brought his hand up and grasped the gun at his temple. “You are free. Kill me and leave. Go on. You don't have to shoot, I am sure you can kill me in any other way you choose and make it quiet. Or stop trying my limits.”

The impasse remained for a long moment, as Bond’s eyes glimmered in the dark.  Without the light of day, it was impossible to tell if he had the same emptiness behind his gaze that Silva did, but after a moment, he murmured as if commenting on the weather, “It’s not loaded.  I haven’t had time to get to the ammo yet.”  He pulled the gun from Q’s grip to flip it lightly in his grip and reholster it, pleasant as you please.  

~^~

Each took a bag and they quickly walked back to the station where Q put them into a cupboard where they would be found but were inconspicuous if Silva got there first, and while Bond waited in the shadows outside, Q took his revolvers, knives, and holster from his father's office and left the keys there. When he came out, he handed the weapons to their owner, and Bond gave a shiver and a sigh at the rightness of having them in hand again.  He could have made do with the ones from Q’s shop, but these were like old friends, and they’d survived as much as he had.  He nodded his thanks as he put them in their old holsters and buckled them all on, and they made their way deeper into the town.

“We need some food,” Q said again. “We have no idea how far they are or how quickly we'll find them, I don't want to starve just because we were too sure of ourselves.”

Maddeningly, Bond couldn’t fault Q’s logic, and he had the sinking feeling that this was going to become a regular sensation.  “Fine.  Where do you suggest we get supplies?  At the risk of adding another sin to my lists, I can pick locks, if you’re thinking of the store I saw on my way into town.”

Q nodded. “I have money. No sins now.”

Slightly comforted - and a bit amused - by Q’s slow turn to a life of crime, Bond nodded again before gesturing for Q to go first.  As the… less criminal… of the two, Bond figured that it would be best to let the sheriff’s son lead, lest they get into trouble.  

Which they did, just as they were turning a corner towards the shop. Suddenly, Q froze in front of him and the next thing Bond knew, he was being pushed against a wall, the rough surface digging into his back  while Q’s whole body was pressed against his front, his hands pressing into his pecs.

“Shhh!” he hissed.

Bond tensed, alert, watching past Q’s shoulder to see what had triggered his sudden actions.  It was just a few heartbeats later - beats that thumped against Q’s hands, long-fingered and warm - that Bond heard the crunch of boot steps.  A townsperson, walking in the deepening night.  Thanks to Q’s quick actions, Bond and Q were out of sight within the deeper shadows between two buildings, although they both froze as if trapped beneath the noonday sun.  Even though Q was no wanted criminal, Bond could feel the way the shop-owner held his breath, if only because it ceased to puff against his jaw.  He seemed to have a better view of the person walking past. The sound of the boots were getting quieter and quieter, until the street was silent again. Q risked a glance around the corner.

Judging from his sagging shoulders and how he stepped away from Bond, the way was truly clear again.  “Good to move?” Bond asked softly.  

Q nodded and walked over to the shop’s doors. “You said you can pick locks?” he asked over his shoulder.

Now Bond grinned, his mood improving.  “I did indeed,” he replied as he pulled something loose from his holster, hidden alongside his gun where no one had noticed it thus far.  He unrolled the modest lock-pick set even as he gave Q’s shoulder a gentle nudge, “Keep an eye out.  I’m fast, but I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, and we’re kind of out in the open.” 

Q turned around without acknowledging him, but did as asked.  Glad for the lack of argument, James got to work, and they were inside within just a few minutes.  Unable to help it, James stood up and eased the door open before giving a mock bow to Q, saying, “Brains before beauty.”  

Q turned and walked past him, saying “I'm glad you know you're not the brains.”

“Are you agreeing that I’m beautiful?” Bond chose as his come-back, feigning both innocence and surprise as he followed.  There was still danger hanging over his head, but as had often happened in the war, that sense of impending doom was exciting him more than was strictly safe or natural.

Q just rolled his eyes at him.

“You are a fragile flower bathing in the sun. Grab the salami.”

They loaded up quickly, both navigating admirably well in the dark, Q’s familiarity with the place again proving invaluable, although Bond chuckled a little at Q’s insistence on paying.  He felt a little twinge of melancholy as well, however, recalling that morals like Q’s were what normal people could afford to have, and he himself might have been a little bit broken in that regard.  From there, the next job was grabbing horses - which actually turned out to be the toughest part of their preparations thus far, because Q was adamantly against the horse idea. He kept talking about how dangerous and violent they could be and that he didn't have that kind of money and when Bond dragged him over to them, he kept staring at the beasts as if they had eaten his dinner… or would eat  _ him _ for  _ their _ dinner.  Still, once Q was on a horse, his skill in the saddle was passable, and soon they were sneaking out of town.  

They were passing by the last houses when Q slowed down and then stopped and turned the horse.  Bond couldn’t for the life of him tell what Q was looking at for a moment, and in fact worried that the younger man had noticed someone following them.  Just as he was about to turn his horse about as well, however, it all clicked.  The town of Tombstone was dark and dull except for a few spots of light, lanterns in windows, lit taverns, late-nighters - but Q wasn’t looking at it aesthetically.  He was looking at it through the eyes and with the memories of someone who had lived there, had probably grown up there... and who was now leaving it.  And unless Q was a lot stupider than Bond thought (and Bond was fairly certain that that wild mop of hair hid a genius brain), then he had to know the high risk of death in their undertaking, and thus the chances of never seeing this place again.  Of course, if they did nothing, or if they failed, then Silva would ensure they never saw it, himself.  

Bond’s heart went out to Q, as he watched him.  Bond had no home, no town, no groundto root his feet to.  The last time he’d had anything to look back upon with familiarity and longing....

Well, Silva had killed her.  

“Come on, Q,” Bond said, far more gently than he’d said anything thus far, “We need to make some progress now if we’re to keep Silva from wreaking havoc in the morning.”


	4. Ghost Town

“Okay, Q, time to earn your keep,” Bond said, drawing them to a halt beyond the lights of the town.  It was a full moon, providing a lot of light for the late hour, but Bond still wasn’t comfortable just running off wildly in the dark.  “I came in by way of Sierra Vista, but I don’t know the territory beyond that.  What’s around here?  Within a few hours ride?”

Q twisted in the saddle to the right, then to the left, thinking. He then turned his whole horse around and stared at the other side of Tombstone, as if accessing a mental map. 

“There’s a few small towns around, but they're probably not in one of them, right?” he looked at Bond for confirmation and then turned back. “South, maybe six hours ride, is the border with Mexico. Half way there is Bisbee, quite an important city, the train that carries silver from Tombstone comes from there and goes to Tucson through…” he turned the horse again and pointed behind Bond, to the completely other side. “... Fairbanks, which is also one of the towns near San Pedro, a river that parts us from Tucson and Sierra Vista, you must have gone through it. Is anything I said important? Because apart from that, there's just rocks and coyotes everywhere.”

The speed with which Q brought that all up was pretty impressive, and Bond nodded in appreciation before replying, “Silva likes his space and he likes to stay hidden, because his gang is always large and hard to control, so definitely no major towns - he’ll also want to stay close to his target.  He’s not above commuting, but it’s irritating.”

“Alright… a spacious hiding spot. The mountains? There's the Mule Mountains around Bisbee… and the Dragoon Mountains, but they're the exact other side, southeast from Tombstone.”

Bond considered, then asked, “Does the river lead to the Mule Mountains?”  He was starting to narrow down the most likely targets, getting anxious to move again.

“Yes, about a mile from the first peaks,” Q said and looked at him expectantly. He clearly wasn't that anxious to move, mostly considering that he was still unsure what to do with the creature under him.  Unfortunately for Q, that last bit of information had been all Bond needed to decide on a course of action.  

“The river is an easy landmark to follow, and Silva isn’t much more familiar with this area than I am,” Bond assessed, gathering up his reins, “plus, he’s got men to feed and water, and he can get both there.”  Gesturing vaguely with a hand, Bond commanded in a gallant tone, “Lead on, Q.  From the river to the mountains it is - or as far as we can get in the dark.”

Q suddenly seemed very grim. He poked his horse into a walk and headed past Bond to the west. “I'm glad I'm going to do this with a man who thinks like a psychopathic mass murderer, I really am,” he murmured loud enough for Bond to hear.

Bristling a little and narrowing his eyes, Bond made sure to call after him, “Just wait until you see that I can shoot like one, too,” before spurring his horse to catch up.  

The ride that followed was tedious but quiet, the former caused by the darkness and Q’s mediocre riding skills (not only did they have to worry about a horse breaking a leg in the moonlit dark, but they had to worry about Q falling off if his horse shied) and the latter was caused by the understandable tension between the gunman and the sheriff’s son who was now stuck with him.  Still, Bond had to admit that Q was dependable and knew what he was doing.  In fact, the few times that James asked if Q really knew where they were going, Q seemed so certain of himself that Bond had to say, “Not to be offensive, but most people who can barely ride a horse aren’t this good at navigating wild terrain at night.  Do you have some superpowers I haven’t heard of before?”

Q snorted and his horse - that he several times called You Bastard, which was now probably his rightful name - made a very similar noise.

“I've just seen the map. It's easy to imagine where I am after I cross a certain distance at a certain angle. I can see it in my head.”

“You can… see it in your head?” James parroted, easing his horse up alongside until he could stare curiously at Q from right next to him.  

“Yes,” Q shrugged.

“Q, that’s…”  Bond didn’t have words for a moment, and just shook his head.  He tried another angle, “Q, I can judge distances and wind-speed to make a clean shot, but that’s all thanks to practice and reflex.  You can’t just…  _ practice _ maps.”  He couldn’t keep the bit of wonder out of his voice, and continued to watch Q as if he’d suddenly become something three-dimensional, something real. He couldn't see his expression clearly in the dark, but it seemed to Bond that the constant tension had disappeared from his face to be replaced by something akin to humbleness.

“I… I don't know, I was always able to do that. I just remember what I see, that's all. No one ever found it that interesting.”

“Well, color me interested - and impressed,” Bond said, turning forward again but sparing a moment to let loose a soft whistle. When he turned back, Q’s big eyes were shining right at him like those of a cat in the moonlight.

“Ehm… thanks, I guess,” he said finally in a voice completely stripped of its usual strength. It was a nice voice.

From there, it felt like they walked their horses at a snail’s pace forever, but Bond wanted to make as much headway as possible.  He just hoped they weren’t going in the wrong direction entirely, because it was crucial that they at least place themselves between Silva and his target before the murderer and his gang went on the attack.  Of course, considering the size of Silva’s gang, what Bond really needed to do was find them and set up an ambush - something to even the odds.  Despite how these thoughts and worries gnawed at his mind, by the time they reached the river, as promised, the ground was growing too uneven to safely travel across.  “All right,” Bond sighed, stopping his own horse and reaching out to grab Q’s horse’s reins and do the same, “I’m afraid that even if we dismount and walk, one of the horses is going to turn a hoof, and then we’ll be down a horse and a long way from anywhere.  I think we’re going to have to call it a night and hope that an early start in the morning will pay off.  Is there a good place nearby where we can hole up tonight?”

“We can try to find something near Fairbank, there shouldn't be any risk in getting seen there, the news about you might have not reached them. It’s a small town, a hundred or so people. It’s also just a short walk to the river.” Q said tiredly.

The idea of heading back to civilization made Bond’s shoulders tense, but he’d slept on the hard ground enough to appreciate what a bed felt like.  And to be honest, the idea of being at least somewhat rested when they found Silva had its own appeal, so soon James was agreeing, and again letting Q lead the way with that inexplicable map in his head.  James had a good sense of direction, but it was hardly the same, and he caught himself just staring a few times as Q adjusted their course and kept moving, undeterred by the dark.  

If anything, they’d slipped into an almost companionable sort of silence by the time Q said that Fairbank should be just up ahead.  

For a moment, Bond frowned, looking in the direction Q was pointing and wondering if the young man’s map had gone awry without warning.  “How close did you say we were?” he asked slowly, seeing only darkness where he imagined he should be seeing at least a distant light or two.  Even a town the size of Fairbank was never truly asleep.  Maybe Q had the distance wrong in that head of his.  

Q didn't answer, spurred his horse to go a little faster, his brows furrowing.

They had gone barely another hundred feet when the first house materialized from the darkness, its wooden walls barely visible in the moonlight. It was possible this was a very calm town, where everyone went to sleep early…

“What's that smell?” Q asked in a tone that spoke of his fear of the answer. 

But Bond couldn’t get his mouth to move, because he’d smelled it already, too, and had smelled it often enough in the war that he couldn’t hide behind ignorance.  He knew the smell of decaying flesh like most men knew the sound of their own footsteps.  

“Stay here, Q,” he ordered in a voice gone harsh.  James was already leaping down from his horse, pausing just long enough to toss the reins into Q’s startled hands.  This could not be happening…

On foot, James tried for stealth, but the back of his mind already told him that there was no need, that if he was smelling decaying bodies already, then there was no one left to sneak up on and surprise.  The damage had been done.  Still, James refused to admit what he already knew until he rounded the first building and nearly stumbled over a corpse in the dark, its limbs splayed, eyes dully reflecting the moonlight like pebbles that had lost their sheen.  Bond didn’t need to look further to know that there’s be more corpses, because this one was out in the open, and if there was anyone left alive in Fairbank, they’d have moved the body already.  

“How long?” Q’s choked up voice surprised Bond. He turned to see the young man standing amongst the corpses, looking around with a complicated tangle of emotions, a mix of horror, fear and sadness, but only in the tilt of his head, the hunch of his shoulders, the set of his mouth. “How long are they dead?”

It was horrid how easily James knew that answer, and he was responding before he realized it, “A day, probably.  I’ll know more in the daylight, but…”  He was used to death, but having Q there made him realized how sickening it all was, and James swallowed thickly and backed away from the corpse at his feet.  Still, he responded, “...They’d smell worse if they’d been killed much longer ago than that.”

Q nodded stiffly. “Worse,” he choked out. Bond had to admit that the smell was incredibly sickening, something you could never get used to, and for someone who smelled it for the first time, and in such a capacity…

Q suddenly bent over and threw up.

The splash was minimal, as if he had nothing to throw up, but the black haired man started coughing and when he straightened up, he was wiping not just his mouth but his nose as well. Bond winced - he’d been through that before, when he had nothing in his stomach so all that came up was the stomach acid and saliva, shooting through his mouth and nose, burning like hell.  Almost worse was the fact that it reminded Bond that he at least hadn’t eaten properly in a whole day - and it looked like Q hadn’t either.  Sadly, he rather doubted that Q would appreciate the reminder now.  So instead, James politely looked away and stated facts, “This is Silva’s work.”

“You don't say,” Q’s voice was even sicker than before. 

Bond was feeling sick, although for slightly different reasons.  He nodded and said hollowly, “It seems he had more on his agenda than just Tombstone.”  ‘ _ But I wasn’t smart enough to figure that part out _ ,’ he berated himself.  This wasn’t the first time that Silva had gotten bored with just one town, and had loosed his gang on a nearby target in the meanwhile.  “Come on, Q,” he said, feeling like he was saying that a lot lately, although this time he wrapped a hand around Q’s elbow to match the words with a tug, “There’s nothing we can do here, and we’ve still got to sleep.”

They camped nearer the river, far away to escape the smell. It was warm enough that they didn't need to make a fire, and there was no real need for it - neither of them would get any food into their stomachs. They sat on the ground, in a patch of grass, overlooking the river which they knew only by the sound of water running through the mud. 

Q sat there, back stiff, eyes wide open, breath too even to be natural.  Bond had seen that look before, on new soldiers.  Even though Q wasn’t in any way responsible for this, it was clear that he’d never gotten close enough to shake hands with Death before, not like this, and it hurt Bond inside to see the impact it was having on the younger man.  That alone had James moving over until he was sitting next to Q, close enough that even a deep inhale would make their shoulders touch.  “I’m sorry you had to see that, Q,” he said, scraping the words out from somewhere deep, staring forward at the stars strewn across the night sky.  He barked out a mirthless noise that might have once been a chuckle, “Honestly, I’d rather have you think me a liar than to see proof like that of what Silva can do.”  He dragged in a sigh, and as predicted, the inhale dragged his shoulder against Q’s, and he took comfort in the living warmth of the brief contact.  

“I'm alright,” Q said, sounding like he was trying to make himself believe. “I just need… I'm just trying to think of something else. Just trying to have a different image in my head, anything that's not… but it's all I can see, bodies, blood, their eyes staring into the sky… and that smell, I swear I can still smell it.”

Bond nodded slowly, heart twisting.  He wanted to tell Q that the images would go away… but he didn’t think that he could pull off the lie just now.  Usually, he was a fabulous liar, but right now he kept thinking that if he’d figured Silva out faster - better - then he’d have realized that the madman was capable of destroying two towns instead of just one.  At least they’d stumbled upon the town in the dark, so the bodies were little more than lumps in shades of grey, details picked out in cold moonlight.  Still, he wanted to say something to fix the horror of the situation, if only a little bit, so he found himself saying haltingly, “I saw a lot of this… before.  In the Civil War.”

Q looked at him hopefully, his eyes big in the dark, their colour completely lost. “How do you cope? You seem so unaffected… I'd love to be unaffected.”

“You didn’t see me when I was first recruited,” Bond answered ruefully, rubbing a hand along the stubble at his jaw before softer memories rose up unexpectedly.  He found himself smiling.  “And for awhile I had help.  Death is easier to deal with when you have company.”

Q kept looking at him for a while, then he nodded as if sealing a mental deal with himself. “Good that we're not alone, then.”

That sobered James abruptly and he looked down; this time, when their shoulders brushed, it was because James’s muscles had tensed.  Reality settled in, hard and cold.  When he’d thought about company, he’d been thinking further back than Q, and just now he felt her like a ghost at his back.

Q’s frown was back. He was looking straight at James, trying to figure him out, trying to keep himself from asking - he was so close Bond could see it all on his face even in the dim light. In the end, he cracked and asked - “Silva took someone from you. You said.”

The wound felt fresh, and it took an effort to contain the flinch.  James couldn’t look at Q, but since he figured the young man deserved an answer for all that he’d gone through (and would continue to go through, if he didn’t run away screaming from all this), he scraped the answer from somewhere inside his chest, “Yes.  Her name…”  He rolled it around in his mouth, trying to remember the last time he’d said her name, and suddenly felt bad for keeping the sound of her in the dark.  “Her name was Vesper.  I met her after the war, and she made it easier to forget.”

Fortunately, Q didn’t pry further. He looked down and started fidgeting, playing with the dry soil under his hands.

“My mother died three years ago,” he said finally. “She was sick for a long time. I know what it feels like when… well, the only person you feel connected to perishes. I’m sorry.” When Bond didn't say anything, he continued. “Do you regret you didn’t join Silva when he tried recruiting you?”

“Yes,” Bond was able to answer with surprising ease, even though something dark slunk into his voice.  “She’d still be alive if I’d just said that one word.”

Q tensed next to him. “You’d rather murder hundreds for gold to save one woman,” he said, not a small amount of resentment in his voice. “For some reason, it doesn’t make me comfortable, knowing that your only stake in this is revenge.”

For some reason, that cajoled a small laugh out of Bond, and though it was rough and ugly around the edges, it somehow felt nice to have someone to argue with.  “We can’t all be saints, Q,” he reminded a bit sadly.  

Q raised his eyebrows at him. “Saints? Are you trying to say I am one?” he suddenly stood up and looked down on Bond. His hands were curled into fists by his hips. “There is a big grey area between saints and murdering psychopaths, Bond, an area some might called humanity. I never thought you might be saint, but until now I believed you human. People die in horrible circumstances. But if you gave me the option of saving my mother from suffocating in her own blood on our bed in exchange for wiping out towns like Fairbank, I would watch her die again.”

Surprise finally dragged Bond out of his head and made him blink up at Q, startled.  He was speechless for a long moment, just staring at Q’s fisted hands and tense, thin frame.  Opening his mouth, James just closed it again, the answers that he’d given himself for what felt like forever feeling… suddenly inadequate.  It was a strangely helpless feeling, and he wasn’t sure whether to be angry about that, or oddly grateful.  Meeting those angry eyes straight on, however, he latched onto something in them that made his soul go quiet and calm and still.  “The list of people who have mattered to me in life is short,” Bond said, very steadily, “and I’m not going to lie and say that I have some huge heart that lets everyone in.  But I am going to stop Silva from hurting anyone else, because I know the pain he causes, and…”  He stopped, and sighed tightly through his teeth, finally looking down and admitting grudgingly, “...And maybe I’m not enough of a bastard to wish that on anyone.”

Q stood as he was for a moment. Then, slowly, he let out a breath, unclenched his fists, and sat down again. He was still frowning a little, but then his lips formed something akin to a very small smile.

“It is normal to think that the person you loved deserves special treatment, and it is normal for you to care about them more than the nameless potential deaths after. But only the worst of people would actually go through with saving one life over hundreds.”

Looking at Q askance, James hid the way Q’s words had slipped in and struck his heart by murmuring, “Shit, I was just getting used to realizing that you’re smart.  Now I have to get used to you being wise, too?”

Q cracked a smile.

“Horrible, isn’t it? From now on you should just listen to me, hm?”

The faux-unimpressed snort became a snicker, became a laugh, and Bond reached out without thinking to ruffle Q’s wild mess of hair in rough, spontaneous affection.  Equally spontaneous was the murmured, “It hasn’t steered me wrong so far.”  He finished gently, to prove that he’d been listening earlier, “Your mother would be proud.” 

Q blinked at him like an owl, the effect even strengthened by the mess his hair was. He reached up to run his hand through it, not doing anything to make the strands presentable, but his hand hid his face for a few seconds. Then he let it fall back down but didn’t look at Bond. “Thanks,” he said very quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” Bond leaned over to bump Q’s shoulder with his, forgetting for a moment his own strength and nearly unseating his slimmer companion.  He quickly kept speaking to drown out any rebuke for his actions, “We should get some sleep.  One way or another, we have a full day tomorrow.  I want to get a look at that town in daylight, and at the very least pick up Silva’s trail from there.  Worst case scenario, we ride like hell back to Fairbank and just wait for him.”  

Q swallowed thickly but nodded. Suddenly his good mood had evaporated.

“Just… one last question,” he said. “How do you make yourself sleep?”

That was a tough question…  “Alcohol?” Bond started, then realized that firstly, they didn’t have any, and secondly… that really wasn’t a healthy answer.  He tried again, thumbing idly at the spurs at the back of his boots as if that would align his thoughts, “Mostly, you just lie down, close your eyes, and hope for the best.  Besides, I’m sure that you’re more exhausted than you think.  Sleep will come.”  

Q nodded but didn’t look any happier.

“How exhausted do I have to be to avoid nightmares?”

“Pretty much half-dead with exhaustion,” Bond answered from experience, and winced at Q’s  defeated expression.   Moved by sympathy, James looked over at him and said encouragingly, “I’ll wake you up if you start tossing.”

Q took that as reassurance enough, because he finally lay down. Surprisingly, he didn’t turn away from Bond, rather curled on his side towards him, as if trying to stay close to the only source of heat and life around. He must have been more exhausted than he let on, because Bond doubted Q would let down his barriers like that if he was fully aware of his actions.  Frankly, if Bond himself were less exhausted and rattled by the day, he wasn’t sure if things would have panned out as they had.  As it was, he blinked in bewilderment at Q’s closeness for a minute, then gave himself an internal shake and reminded himself that there was nothing wrong with this.  

Especially considering his shameless flirting and teasing earlier…

Pushing  _ those _ thoughts to the furthest corner of his head, James admitted that he was tired, and with the chance of them being found out there slim to none, he eased himself down on the ground, too, and fell into a shallow sleep.  

It felt like just seconds before the shallowness of that sleep was tested, and James slitted his eyes open, body still but senses becoming alert.  It was still night, and Silva and his gang were unlikely to move about until the sun rose, but something had woken him…

That something was five-foot-seven, black-haired, and currently squeezing his left bicep so tightly James was sure he’d have more bruises in the morning. Q was clearly still asleep, his eyes closed tightly but his forehead and eyebrows wrinkled in a frown, and he was breathing too quickly for someone at rest.  Acting on instinct, James left his upper arm in Q’s desperate grip while reaching over with his other hand, hesitating for just a moment before putting professionalism aside and stroking the younger man’s head.  “Q,” he called softly, then, when that garnered no response, let his fingers stray deeper and card through tangled locks, “Q, everything’s all right.”

Q jerked awake, his eyes flying wide open. He stayed like that for a few moments, then looked up into Bond’s eyes and cursed. “It’s not a dream…” he sighed and closed his eyes. “Fuck, the best part about waking up is realizing you don’t live in the the dream, but my reality  _ is _ my dream.”

James had to fight to hold in a chuckle at Q’s utterly dejected tone, realizing that Q probably wasn’t in the mood to appreciate his mirth.  However, he would have thought the brilliant (if rather up-tight) young man wasn’t in the mood to appreciate bodily contact from a man either, but Q hadn’t made a fuss about their nearness, or the fact that James’s hand was presently frozen with his fingers still pressed against dark hair.  That either meant Q was still a bit too sleep-muddled to have properly noticed… or the nightmare still had him more scared than James had initially suspected.  Either way, it was in Bond’s best interests to keep Q calm and hopefully coax him back to sleep, or so he told himself as he recalled his conversation with Tanner about Q’s affections.  “Well, the advantage to dreams,” Bond murmured back offhandedly, keeping his voice to a soft register and very carefully not moving the arm Q still gripped, “is that they tend to change every time you close your eyes.”  Taking a risk, James very carefully moved his hand in a gentle stroke of Q’s hair, but murmured with all the sincerity he could muster, “So why don’t you go back to sleep, Q?  Try again.  God knows this reality isn’t going anywhere.”

Q’s eyes were still closed and he was probably halfway to sleep already - that was probably why his reaction was to sigh under Bond’s hand and curl up closer to him. His hand, the one that had gripped Bond’s bicep before, relaxed, now squeezing only very slightly. He was really a sight like this - all the tension, the worry, fear, anger, it was all gone, his guard down, and he looked impossibly younger.  Flirting with Q earlier had been fun - and even rather exciting when the younger man had snapped back at him - but now it took on a different level of interest, as Bond watched the way the moonlight added a bluish gloss to dark hair, and just barely highlighted and softened Q’s edges and angles.  Sleep was softening the edges in particular, so James grew a bit bolder, carefully turning his weight onto his side, facing Q.  He told himself that he was just making of himself the shelter that Q seemed to want, to keep the nightmares at bay, but it also happened to make reaching over and stroking Q’s hair more comfortable and easy.  “There you go, Q,” he hushed, enjoying the feel of those soft strands against his calloused palm more than he wanted to admit, “Just rest.”

Q’s breath levelled after a short while. Bond could safely say he fell asleep, curled at his side with his hand in his hair, and he looked much more peaceful than at any time since Bond met him.


	5. Chasing a Rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for having the patience with us :) we might take a bit longer sometimes, but we won't abandon you or this story (unless all three of us die, in which case we will need you to hack into our google accounts, I fear).

“Q.  Q, wake up.”  

Q slowly gained consciousness. At first he was very confused by his surroundings, which felt nothing like his house or his bed, mostly because he was quite certain he was lying on the ground; and by the voice that was rousing him - a deep, rough voice that made his insides tingle. He opened his eyes and had to quickly shut them again because the light was digging into them like a set of daggers.

He blinked his way into full awareness. The light brought memories with it, and his mood quickly fell to subzero degrees when he remembered the previous day and all that had happened since he last woke up. When he finally opened his eyes, however, the confusion grew again.

He really was lying on the ground, which hurt most of his body the way only a night spent on the ground can, but not ALL his body was currently on said ground. He was very much sprawled on top of Bond’s left side, hugging his broad and very muscular chest, his leg thrown over Bond’s leg, his middle pressed against his ribs and hip.

He almost dreaded looking up, but he was no coward. And it wasn’t like there would be some angry cowboy under him, Bond had made it clear he wouldn’t be opposed to Q’s… physical closeness, but one never knew, and Q wasn’t that certain of himself to think that draping himself all over someone like an octopus would make that someone overly happy. When he did look up, he found Bond looking back at him almost sedately.  “I’d like to get moving before the sun rises, but I’m a little bit tangled up, I’m afraid,” the gunman said as blithely as you please.  

Q took a second to understand his tone, which was difficult this early in the morning, but then he was scrambling away hastily, sitting up and looking around, trying to find something to say. Embarrassment was catching up with him and he was almost certain this would be impossible to live down - how was it ever acceptable to cuddle with a strange and very dangerous man who disrupted your whole life in one day and would probably lead you to your death? Well, according to Q, it was alright the next morning.

He brought a hand to his hair and ruffled it in in consternation, probably making it an even bigger mess than sleeping on the ground slash former soldier had.  Despite having been half-used as a bed, James looked quite content, which was just plain maddening.  In fact, all the man did when Q scrambled away was roll onto his side, propped on an elbow like a big, idle mountain lion watching a particularly amusing cub.  “Are you really awake now, Q?” he asked with the faintest dry edge slipping into his tone, and damn, that twitch at his mouth had to be the hint of a smile.  

Q felt a further stab of embarrassment at how easily Bond could read him. Mornings were always difficult for him - if he had his own bed here, he’d be probably snuggled in the covers trying to catch a few more minutes of sleep, acting like a five year old. It was hard to become a person forcefully, just to look presentable and strong as he always did in front of other people.

“I’m fine,” he said. He sounded like a petulant child.

“Good.”  Bond rolled to his feet as agilely as the aforementioned big cat, making it rather clear that he either woke up insanely fast or had already been awake… with Q all over him… for some time now.  “Because we don’t have a lot of time, and I think that if you and I don’t eat…  Well.”  The blond-haired man cast Q a roguish smile over his shoulder as he settled his gear and moved towards their packs, finishing, “I’ll live, but I fear a waifish thing like you will blow away.”

“I’m not waifish!” Q protested, offended. “I’m not half as skinny as everyone makes up, I just don’t bulk up like  _ some _ people. It’s just that you can’t see it because of the baggy clothes. Not my fault.”

Back to Q as he rummaged through their packs (ignoring his horse as it snuffled at his hair like a massive dog), James replied airily without looking back, “Then by all means, lose the clothes, Q, and prove me wrong.”

Q almost slapped his own face for not watching his tongue - he blamed the early hour for that. Bond’s insistence did make him hot all over though - he wasn’t used to anyone showing such clear interest, and this new form of attention was proving something he never knew he needed. He thought only women had men compliment them and  _ want them _ , and he was used to being just a needs must. He had quick sex with strangers who only wanted him because it was very hard to come by another man like him, and he accepted that because he saw the same in them. But Bond… he seemed to actually want HIM. But that might be just because he hadn't had him yet. Maybe if all the men had to wait and persuade him, they all would do it like this.

Maybe if Q ever had his life back, he would try it with the next stranger who shopped at his establishment.

“Q,” the soft call of his name was the only warning he got before a loaf of bread sailed his way.  He caught it and stared at it for a while before his stomach twisted painfully and he tore a chunk off and bit into it.

“So what are we doing today?” he asked with his mouth full.

Chewing on something but also completing the task of re-saddling their horses without needing to be asked, Bond replied with no more joking in his tone, “Firstly?  Going back to Fairbank.  You don’t have to come into town with me.  I can come back for you once I find Silva’s trail.”

Q really thought about it. He didn’t want to be alone waiting like a damsel in distress, but he also really,  _ really _ didn’t want to see all those dead people again. But what if instead of Silva’s trail Bond found Silva himself? Q wasn’t a soldier, but he wasn’t useless in a fight either and the more guns, the better, mostly because it was unlikely that Silva would be alone. Q didn’t even know how big his gang was, and if it could cause such destruction to whole towns, it must have been huge indeed.

“I’m coming with you,” he said finally. “Just in case.”

Cinching up the saddle on Q’s horse, Bond glanced back with a smile that was only half joking as he asked, “What?  Don’t trust me on my own?”

“No,” Q stood up and dusted his trousers. “I mean yes. I mean... “ he sighed and tried again. “I do trust you. But I want to be there. You never know what could happen, splitting up isn’t a safe option. I’m not thrilled about it, but I’ll go with you.”

Bond accepted that with a nod, but still stared at Q for a moment more with pale blue eyes that seemed to sear into him, almost too keen to be real.

Soon the two were packed up and mounted again, this time with James leading the way, because his own internal mapping system seemed very good at backtracking - after a night sleeping on the ground, he was also unfairly limber, and more comfortable on horseback besides.  The latter fact led to some teasing.  “You sure you don’t want to just ride with me?  I’d even let you sit up front and steer,” Bond looked back over his shoulder to cajole, his grin impish.  

“I’m not a child, Bond,” Q answered with some annoyance. His whole body was in pain, but what was going on around his thighs and behind was another story altogether. This was why he hated horses - this and the fact that they were scary and huge. He knew how to ride them, obviously, but was never keen on it and if he could he would find any other mode of transportation, therefore even the two hours they had spent on horseback the night before made him wish he never had to sit again.

Unfortunately, he was sitting right now, on that same moving surface, the source of his pain.

Bond, being a bastard, watched Q’s expression like he could read every inch of it, and remarked, “I know you’re not.  I’d never try to seduce a child,” he said in all solemness, but with a gleam in his eye that was definitely something other than solemn.

Q rolled his eyes. “How are you this open about it? How did you even survive the war if you keep saying stuff like this to men? Did you never run to trouble because of it?”

That at least seemed to catch the gunman up a bit, and he must have jumped in his seat a bit, because his horse tossed his head and had to be brought under control for a second by Bond’s capable hands.   Q tried not to think about Bond’s capable hands…   After a brief pause, however, James recovered and replied, “Everyone in the war had their secrets, and in between learning to just  _ stay alive _ , some of us learned to hide those secrets better than others.  I was one of the better ones.  Since then, I’ve just decided that I don’t give a damn, because I’ve already been threatened and shot at so often in my life-”  He glanced up at Q from where he’d been frowning down at the back of his horse’s neck, and flashed a smirk again.  “-At this point, I deserve to be threatened and shot at for something worthwhile, right?”

Q thought about it. He had no idea what the war was like, apart from some rumours and some books he had read, but it seemed plausible that your priorities changed when you were under the threat of death every day. Maybe the men Bond fought with believed that he would die anyway, so why bother.

“Why did you join the army?” Q asked.

With each question, Bond was having a harder and harder time teasing and joking, and his expression looked almost suspicious as he glanced back this time.  His suspicion didn't stop him from answering, however, instead murmuring with a frown, “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”  He elaborated with a quick look away, “I didn’t have any parents or prospects, and I was already good with a gun, so it seemed like a decent fit.”

Q frowned. “It doesn’t now?”

“War’s over,” James shrugged, as if that said it all.  He seemed like a man who needed a task, and apparently peacetime work in the army didn’t quite fit.  Then again, James also didn’t seem like the order-following type to begin with, so maybe it was more of a miracle that he’d lasted in the army at all…

Q didn’t push it further - Bond obviously didn’t want to talk about his years in the war, which seemed odd to him. The men Q knew who had been in the war were of two types - those like Bill Tanner, who didn’t want to remember the horrors, and then those who loved to talk about gore and came up with stories of bravery to make themselves look important in front of the townsfolk. Bond wasn’t the type to shy away from violence, that was obvious, so why would he want to avoid the topic? Was there a difference in his mind between killing in different situations?

They didn’t talk for the several next minutes, until they reached the town. The stench again hit them first, stronger than the night before, and Q had to cover his nose with his sleeve so he wouldn’t immediately lose the little food he had managed to eat. His horse also once again seemed to appreciate the foul odor about as much as Q did, and it took him several painful moments to wrestle the fractious beast's head around from its attempt to bolt, and force it back in the direction of the town. Q was momentarily envious, watching as Bond's firm and timely handling of his own horse forestalled any attempt to flee the vile smell.

Then the houses appeared on the horizon.

The visual was much worse than the previous night. Then, the bodies had been partially shrouded in darkness, and Q couldn’t see them all, nor could he see them well. Now, however, every last one of them was as visible as it was possible to be, with every gory detail exposed. Men, women, children, sprawled on the ground, shot as they ran. Q almost lost it again while his horse nervously edged past the body of a little girl with a bullet to the head and her eyes wide open.

“What can we find here? It’s not like they left us a message about their whereabouts,” he said weakly.  

James’s expression was as cold and inhuman as one of the mechanisms of the guns Q dealt in.  He was scanning everything with intense eyes, shying away from nothing, although his body thrummed with a low level of tension that was visible in hs shoulders, his ramrod-straight back, his hands holding the reins tight.  He answered coolly, “They did.  You just have to know where to look.  Here-”  He dismounted, then handed his tightly bunched reins to Q.  “Watch my horse.”  And without further explanation, began walking amidst the bodies, eyes on the ground.

Q considered just leaving him to it in silence, but there wasn’t much to do here apart from conversation that would distract him from the sight of death, so he followed Bond around instead.

“What are you looking for?” he asked. He knew that any minute now Bond would tell him to shut up and let him concentrate, but even that would be a distraction and those were greatly appreciated.

Therefore, it was something of a surprise when James answered absently but immediately, “Tracks, mostly.  People used to walk around this town all the time, but the most recent tracks are going to be Silva and his men - they’ll be the only tracks leaving Fairbank, and I intend to follow them.”  Bond began making wider and wider sweeps, reminding Q of a hunting hound trying to pick up a scent.  He was soon leaving the main thoroughfare with quicker and quicker strides, forcing Q to keep up, weaving their horses skittishly through the bodies as James grew more confident in his directions.  It was impossible to tell exactly when he somehow picked up a set of tracks that he knew to belong to the killers, but James only lifted his eyes from the ground when they were suddenly faced by railway tracks littered with bodies like discarded leaves. The corpses were wearing railway uniforms, dirtied by blood and dirt.

“Where does this railway lead to? Come from?” Bond spun around to demand.

“Ehm…” Q was trying to think. “The only train that goes through this place leaves Bisbee twice a month and goes through Tombstone. It takes silver to Sierra Vista. Do you think… you think they have the train? What would they do with it?”

It was clear that Bond’s mind was whirling, as he looked up and down the tracks, empty of their train but decorated with the unfortunate dead.  Hands flexing restlessly, James replied after just the briefest pause, “Silva commands a lot of men - enough that he’d see the usefulness in quick transportation.”  Tipping his head thoughtfully, the blond-haired gunman also admitted, “The fact that the train carries silver would also have piqued his interest.”

Q nodded slowly. “In that case there’s only two directions they could have gone. Either to Sierra Vista, or back. But I saw Silva yesterday, there’s no way he would have crossed the river, he must be in the vicinity of Tombstone, and Sierra Vista is too big, he couldn’t hide the fact that the train changed hands,” he thought about all the possibilities - if the train went back to Bisbee, it had to go through Tombstone - maybe that was when they left Silva there to look around. “Bisbee is in the mountains. You said they would be either by the river or in the mountains, what if they were by both?”

No longer looking at whatever trail had led him here, James was now facing just Q, and eyeing him with interest, “What are you thinking?”

Q felt strangely enthusiastic about figuring this out - although there was a little voice telling him that Bond would just tell him he’s stupid and then reveal Silva’s real plan. That voice had been his constant companion for years. “Well, we checked the river and found out they were here. Maybe they moved to the mountains. There’s a lot of mines and a lot of tracks leading to those mines. It would be easy to redirect the train to one of them. The perfect hiding spot. And… it might be stupid, but there are a lot of trains going through Tombstone, some don’t even stop, so no one would notice if someone exited a train going from Sierra Vista to Bisbee. Silva might have got to Tombstone that way. When I talked to him yesterday he was wearing a very clean, very bright suit, and now that I think about it, he couldn’t have ridden a horse there.”

While Q had talked, Bond had walked up until he was standing between their horses, a hand resting on Q’s nearest stirrup while his sky-pale eyes remained avidly on the younger man’s face.  “Silva’s willing to get his hands - and the rest of him - dirty, but beneath it, he’s a vane bastard,” James informed Q with a contemptuous curl of his lip “The train would appeal to him, especially since it seems to connect to everything he could want.  Do you…”  Bond paused, expression becoming cautiously questioning as he pointed vaguely at Q’s head, “...have the railway in that mental map of yours?”

Q rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to treat me like a machine, Bond. I’m not the printing press for a  newspaper. Yes, I know where the tracks lead. But Bond… I might be wrong,” Q needed the man to understand that if he  _ was  _ wrong, they would lose time, and he didn’t want that to be his fault. 

“True, and your friend Bill Tanner might secretly be a sodomite," Bond said with sudden brightness, giving Q’s lower leg a friendly pat before turning and swinging up onto his own horse, as easy as breathing, “But both eventualities seem incredibly unlikely.  Come on - lead the way, but tell me the path as we go.  If I can imagine the layout like you do, I can think of the best way to approach where Silva and his pack of curs might be.”

Q handed him the reins of his horse. “Bill - a sodomite? Only if Eve is secretly a man.”

“Exactly,” Bond chuckled, gathering up his horse’s reins and casting a grin Q’s way that mingled pleasure and, if Q wasn’t mistaken, interest and respect, “So unless you’re secretly an idiot, then I think you’re right about this.”  

Q had to turn away because the smile spreading on his face against his will was as manly as a floral pattern, and he was pretty sure his cheeks were redder than they should be. He shouldn’t be reading into it. Bond didn’t like him. And if he did… well, he shouldn’t like Bond.

~^~

With Q leading and keeping Bond apprised of the map he had in his head, the two made quick progress, although James worried that Q’s horsemanship might be tested as they pushed their steeds to a gallop.  Still, the lean young man didn’t fall off, and his directions remained impeccable.  For the most part, James let Q lead them towards the mines, although the closer they got, the more James would call out to Q, get his attention, and nod to lead them in a slightly different direction.  Q knew the topography and layout - but James knew strategy, and he didn’t plan on waltzing right up to Silva via the most obvious route.  Fortunately, Q didn’t argue with him, which was a pleasant surprise.  Most people who hadn’t learned to blindly follow orders in the army had a hard time handling Bond’s clipped demands, but Q didn’t seem to have problems pushing his own ego aside. Bond realized Q might be relying on his expertise - he did doubt himself several times, but never doubted anything Bond said.  Realizing that, Bond felt something in his chest quake, and for a long while he couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to.

The higher the sun rose, the more edgy Bond got, until it became almost physically difficult not to urge his horse into a sprint.  It was almost a relief to have Q with him, because it forced him to keep steady, to slow down and listen to the directions the cooler-headed man was giving.  That, and James half-feared Q would fall if they went any faster.

In front of them, slowly, appeared the hills of the Mule mountains. They quickened their pace and in half an hour the surface under the horses’ hooves started to incline upwards. They rose up into the mountains, quickly gaining top view over the surrounding area. The hills themselves were bright red, reminding them that this area was rich in copper.

“The tracks must be close,” Q said. “Mines are all around us now, it shouldn’t take long to find one.”

“My turn then,” Bond said with some relish, and once again dismounted.  He was quite a skilled tracker, and had kept in practice since the war, so his eyes knew what they were looking for now.  This time, he kept a loose hold on his horse’s reins, but heard Q following along behind as well.  Absently, James murmured, “We’re going to have to stash the horses somewhere.  I don’t know how sneaky you are, but I guarantee you and I together will move more quietly without two horses in tow.”

As soon as he said it, Q jumped off of his horse and suddenly he stood by his side, looking like a keen child. “Where?” he asked.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Bond replied, glancing around.  They were no longer on the flat, arid terrain they’d started out in, which both meant that hiding places were more available, but that visibility was a lot shorter.  “You know the area, so if that brain-map of yours knows any good places to tether some horses out of sight…”

“Well, I suppose we will have to do with the first landmark we find… there is a quite famous place near by, Lavender Pit, it’s near Bisbee,” when Bond gave him a questioning look, he explained: “Thanks to the mines, Bisbee is the biggest town around here, bigger than Tombstone. Lavender Pit is a copper mine, and right next to Bisbee is the Copper Queen Mine, the largest copper mine in all the states. I’m surprised you don’t know that, it’s a pretty big deal.” Bond couldn’t but notice the slightly condescending tone, and smirked a little.

“Since it’s all such a big deal,” Bond deadpanned back, then decided that the best retaliation was a thorough ruffling of Q’s hair, which he did with great vigor as he finished his sentence, “then I don’t suppose you’ll have a problem leading us to Lavender Pit just now?” 

Q growled at him and his hand was suddenly on Bond’s chest, trying to push him away, which he quickly learned wasn’t such an easy task. He blinked at him, his annoyance quickly turning to consternation and a slightly incredible look as he stared at where his hand was pushing into Bond’s pecs.  “Trouble, Q?” Bond drawled, leaning forward instead of back.  Things were about to get dangerous within the next hour, but James had always had a terrible predilection for last-minute shenanigans.  If he was only going to live for another few hours, he was going to enjoy at least some of it, and he was swiftly finding that irritating Q was one of the most enjoyable things he’d ever done.  

Q bit his lip - another thing about Q that Bond was swiftly growing quite attached to - and the fingers splayed on his shirt moved slightly, giving the impression of a cat kneading its paws into his flesh, but there were no claws to scratch him. They were closer now - Q probably didn’t realize he was mimicking Bond, leaning in, his chest pressing against his elbow. He swallowed and looked up into Bond’s eyes.

Before any of them could do anything else, Q’s horse suddenly came into the picture, nudging his head against Q’s shoulder, and the younger man startled so hard he jumped away, the contact quickly breaking.

“Damn horse,” Bond growled uncharitably, dropping his hand and suddenly wishing even harder than before that they both survived all of this.  


	6. The Cliffhanger

Lavender Pit was a place as beautiful as the mountains around. The pit was man made, but the copper and all traces of the silver and gold were already gone, leaving the place empty. It was a large circular hole in the ground so deep that falling inside could be fatal, with the walls descending in steps incised in the red stone. It was near the road leading to the town, and near that big mine that was such a big deal, even though mines were boring and no one cared about them. But from the edge of the pit, they could see anyone going into or out of the town on this side of it, so if the gang ever did go in, they would see it.  

Finding a decent cluster of boulders taller than they were to provide sufficient cover along the rim of Lavender Pit didn’t take long, and Bond took over getting the horses settled.  “Hopefully we’ll be back soon,” he said, to explain why he wasn’t completely removing all the horses’ tack, although he tied them up on a long enough lead that they could feed while they waited, “I’m hoping that we don’t get back with hell on our heels, but just in case, these two will be ready to go.”  Bond gave a companionable slap to the shoulder of each horse, although the animals had already lost interest in him, far more eager to scout out any grass within reach.  The gunman turned his attention back to Q,  watching from not far off , and grew serious again as he said, “Last chance, Q.  This is where the shooting and killing starts, and I won’t hold it against you if you stay here.”

Q frowned to himself and turned away, looking over the road and the pit and the mountains around. It was midday, the sun high up, the temperature above what was considered pleasant for someone from the North, and Q had to squint against the sun, his eyes completely unprotected. 

“No, I think I’ll tag along,” he said finally, his tone light. “If we don’t bust their asses, I can’t go home, and all this beauty is nothing if I can’t get back to what I had,” he turned and looked at Bond, then hung his head. “It must sound stupid to you, this is probably normal in your life. But I’m not like you. I like my life secure. I want it back. The more of us, the better the chances.”

“What’s normal to me,” Bond admitted, scrubbing a hand back through his hair and having to look away from those sharp, sincere eyes, “is probably working alone, but you’ve got a point about two people having a better chance of success than one.  Of course…”  James had enough in him for one last joke, before things got serious, and he flashed his eyes back to Q with a playful smirk, “...That all depends on whether you really can shoot, or whether you’re aiming a gun at my head back in Tombstone was all a bluff.”

“That is offensive, you big hunk of muscles, you must’ve realized I’m not so stupid as to not know how to pull a trigger,” Q said without any bite to it.

Somehow, that was exactly what Bond needed to hear.  This time, when he chuckled and reached out for Q’s mess of hair,  the younger man dodged , but the sense of fun lingered like a pleasant taste that James was able to hide beneath his tongue even as he turned them back the way they’d come.  Now, he lead, stretching out his legs into an easy lope and hoping Q could keep up.  

~^~

They found Silva and his gang in a small abandoned mine, just when James was beginning to worry that they’d wasted too much time and lost them.  

“Great, Silva picked up more men since I last saw him,” James deadpanned, displeased, as he and Q crouched behind a rocky outcropping, out of sight but with a decent view of the rough-looking men milling about the mine-entrance.  James hadn’t spotted Silva yet, but he was already counting at least twenty men - not odds that he liked, even with the element of surprise.  “Can’t flank them,” James muttered his thoughts aloud, gesturing with a gloved hand to the wall of stone that the mine was dug into.  Silva had picked a good spot: they were facing a wall of stone that rose up far above them, the mine a nice hiding place at its base.  A thin waterfall even cascaded from nearby, confirming Bond and Q’s earlier discussions about a band this big wanting to be near a water-supply.  “Although I could probably get to their horses, and cripple Silva’s ability to get anywhere.  The gang would still be dangerous, but not very mobile if their horses were all cut loose.”  

Q was looking at the rocks around the mine, considering. The waterfall was so close the water was pooling by the men’s feet - those bastards couldn’t be happier. “I think…” Q started uncertainly. “I think I can climb up those rocks. I even think I could send some flying on their heads.”

Interest in Silva’s gang momentarily gone, Bond swiveled his head to look at Q like he was crazy.  “Q, do you  _ see _ how high up that is?” 

Q just shrugged.

“I’m good at climbing. If I kill or cripple at least five, they might send someone after me. If they hear a shotgun, they’ll send more. I can shoot them all because I’ll see them all coming long before they reach me. And when there’s not so many down here, you can start shooting them. Sounds good?”

It sort of did, but Bond was still a bit thrown by how Q could go from this fluffy-headed young man who cursed at a horse to this analytically murderous creature he was currently staring at.  “Q… have you even killed anyone before?” he had to ask, knowing how callous he sounded but also needing to know the answer. Q’s face didn’t give him much confidence in the young man’s abilities - his eyes went dark, but not with the memories of his actions, but the anticipation of something bad.

“No,” he answered. “But that won’t stop me. Besides,” he straightened. “My shotgun has a bigger range than those things you call weapons. Do you have a better idea?”

Arching an eyebrow at the slight to his pistols, Bond considered some sort of biting retort, but decided that biting his tongue was smarter.  “I’m not sure I could top the idea of you climbing to the top of a cliff, dropping the cliff on everyone, and then sniping off the survivors,” he exaggerated cautiously, still uncertain.

“Then it’s decided,” Q said, ignoring his snideness. He looked at the gang, his fear finally breaking on the surface. “Please, kill as many as you can, Bond. I trust your abilities, and you said they were pretty amazing, so… just kill them, OK?”

Softening and sighing, because apparently he could go from snapping at Q to wanting to hug him in two seconds flat, Bond gave in and replied, “All right then.  I’ll wait until your rockslide starts a distraction, then I’ll move in.  You watch my back, and I’ll watch yours.”  

Q nodded, moved into a crouch, ready to bolt, the shotgun hanging from his shoulder along his back, as he searched the terrain at their right side, already planning his ascent.

“Now that I'm realizing that I might die in a few minutes, I am really regretting we didn’t have sex,” he said and headed to the rocks, still crouching.

~^~

The rock under Q’s feet and fingers was crumbling, which was a good thing for his plan, but a bad thing for his chances to get to the top and actually execute said plan. He was panting, more from the nerves than the climbing, and had to remind himself to breathe in, breathe out, calm down, because he remembered the last time he was this scared and his breathing went this high - when his mother was dying, he had lost control over his nerves and couldn’t breathe for a few minutes, his heart racing too quickly, his breath too short.

So far, no one seemed to have noticed him, which meant he was probably safe unless he pushed a rock down too soon and caught their attention. The ascen t was getting more and more difficult - the grass had disappeared completely and he was literally climbing, his hands now holding most of his weight. The shotgun wasn’t helping either - if the gun fell, he would be as good as dead, but it was hell to carry. 

He reached the top minutes before reaching the bottom of his energy supply. The first thing he did was sprawl on his back, shotgun next to him, and pant tiredly, all his muscles on fire. When he finally caught his breath, he rolled over onto his stomach and looked over the edge of the cliff.

The gang was under him and to the left, nearer the waterfall than he and Bond had first thought. This worked out just fine for Q, because there were more loose rocks around the water, and more ways to hide. So he gathered his gun and crawled back until he was sure no one, not even Bond, would see him if he stood up, and headed over to the base of the waterfall.

The first thing he did there was piss, because no one wanted to need to piss while in the midsts of a fight, and then drank as much as he could and filled both his water bottles. When they were securely hanging from his belt again, he started looking for those loose rocks, finding several as big as his head and three that he had to roll to the edge because they reached up to his thighs. Those were the perfect ones, and he hoped to high heavens that they didn’t miss their target.

When he was certain there was nothing else he could use, he positioned the biggest rocks right above the gang, one by one, a few feet apart, and kicked them down.

It worked better than he thought it would. The large rocks bounced off the cliff, gaining speed, loosening more rocks underneath, and soon they were raining down upon the gang like the anger of the gods. Q didn’t have much time to celebrate, though - he gathered all the smaller rocks and sent them after the first, gaining a similar, if smaller reaction, and result. Then he waited.

The gang didn’t take long to send someone to go looking for the reason seven of their men were now on the ground. Q couldn’t see if they were dead, but they were definitely not moving and a few others were holding their heads or shoulders. Q waited, his nerves rising again. This was it. Kill or be killed. Or run. He could still run. Save his bare life, if nothing else. There was still hope for him, he could build a new life, somewhere where no one knew him, he had the skills…

But he knew there was no way he could do that. His family and friends were in great danger. And he had an actual chance to stop it. To save them. He could never abandon them, knowing what could happen. And there was Bond… Bond was down there, waiting for Q to do his part, and Q hated to disappoint. Also… he didn’t want to say goodbye to that man just yet. Right now, Q realized that the most pressing and immediate reason why he didn’t want to die was that he wanted to see Bond again.

They sent two men up, and they were slowly ascending, getting closer and closer. Q panicked for a moment, readying his gun and aiming, but then took a few deep breaths - he didn’t want to miss and waste a bullet. So he waited, waited for them to reach the spot he did before, and when they stood up from the same breath catching he'd done, he fired twice.

The sound of a shotgun caused exactly the kind of reaction he thought it would - well, first of all, there were two dead men with him on the hill, and he was responsible, and that was hard to breathe through. But beneath his vantage point the entire gang erupted into chaos, men grabbing guns and scaling the cliff, and Q realized there were too many of them, he realized that the whole gang wanted to kill him now, and he realized it too late. Around twenty men were headed his way, and his only chance was to shoot his way through them.

Splendid.

He didn’t wait this time. He jumped up and ran away from the cliff-edge, loading his gun, jumped on the rocks in the river to get over, and then further into a group of trees until he was in a position from which he could fire over the edge of the cliff, and he did. Out of six shots he killed five men, some instantly, some by injuring them enough that they lost their grip and fell down. But loading his shotgun was taking too much time and the gang was advancing on him quickly, the first men reaching the top. Another man fell down, without Q’s help, probably not good at climbing.

Another two shots, another two men down. He was shooting the men on the top now, and he heard foreign shots - Bond was shooting them from the ground. Q didn’t have the time to see how many fell, but Bond would quickly lose the distance needed for his guns to work, and then Q would be alone in it again. Fortunately, Bond had ten shots at once, and great aim.

Q had to hurry up. If the men reached him enough to see him, he would be definitely dead, they would not hesitate to shoot him. He reloaded again, shot another two men. Reloaded… they reached the river. His hands were shaking. The shots from down the hill quieted, Bond could not help him now, and he still had four men to kill. 

While loading the next two bullets, his hands were shaking so badly one of the bullets ended up on the ground. He jumped down, lying in the dirt, making himself a smaller target, collected the bullet, shoved it into the chamber, and fired twice in short succession, killing both targets. They  had crossed the river. They  would see him soon, the trees weren’t dense here.

He rolled aside and behind a tree. He stood up, panting, wishing for all this to end, desperately wishing, and he reloaded again. He didn’t have many bullets left, but there were only two last men. But when he aim ed now, they  would see him, they’ d know, and they ’d aim back.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, opened them at the sound of feet on the ground, and turned around with the shotgun ready.

Fire.

Man down.

Fire.

Man… almost down.

A shout cut through the air. Q had shot the last man in the leg, and he fell to the ground with a pained scream, but he didn’t drop his gun. Q had to reload. Quickly.

But when he aimed again, still from behind the tree, it wasn’t so easy to shoot. Until now, Q was protecting his life. And if he waited another few seconds, the man would gather himself and shoot at him, Q knew it. But he was about to end the life of an injured man, a man…

… a man that would die if he stayed here anyway, his thigh was a mess of flesh and bone and this scenario didn’t see them both making it alive. So Q fired.

After the shot echoed through the mountains, there was no sound. Q felt like he went deaf, because apart from the ringing in his ears, nothing else could be heard. He couldn’t feel his body, he couldn’t catch his breath. Shock enveloped him and made him freeze, glued to the tree.

It took him a few moments to move and then he was walking back on shaky legs, hoping that there was no one else waiting for him.

~^~

Bond stopped to reload, something that he’d needed to do five minutes ago, but the number of people trying to kill him had neatly prevented that.  Fortunately, Q had stirred up Silva’s gang like an ant-nest, and when Bond had let loose the horses just a few minutes later, the chaos had become total.   Having emptied both pistols into deserving individuals (growling at the few who required more than one bullet), He then switched to knives when he still had opponents coming but no sign that they’d wait patiently while he got more bullets.  

Fortunately, Bond happened to be as surprisingly good with knives as Q was turning out to be with his shotgun.  

“Hot damn, Q,” Bond breathed as he snapped the rounds back into place, giving him one gun that was more than a conversation piece again.  The shooting on top of the cliff-face had stopped, and while James had a deep fear that Q had stopped shooting because he…  No, he wasn’t dead.  Bond wasn’t sure when Q had become such a pivotal part of his world, but he couldn’t imagine even the rest of the day without the dark-haired young man in it, if only because James still had to return the favor of Q’s parting words.  

Looking around him while he loaded his remaining gun by touch alone, the pattern familiar and soothing, Bond saw that at least everyone was dead or down and groaning.  “Q?” Bond felt safe to bellow, low voice carrying like a demand, a demand that his companion answer.  

Instead of getting an answer, James heard a gunshot, and suddenly he was on the ground.  

For a bewildered, dizzying second all Bond could think was, ‘ _ Q?  Q shot me? _ ’  But that didn’t make any sense.  Just because Bond had been looking up to call to the younger man, straining for any sign of him, didn’t mean that’s where the bullet had come from.  Groggily getting his mind away from the shock, his eyes moving from the quiet cliff-top, to the blood spreading down his right sleeve, and finally to where his instincts were screaming  for him to look… James went for his gun.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” Silva’s smooth voice chided him, the man already aiming his gun for another shot as he stepped into view.  “Now, I missed the first shot, James, but I promise that the second one will kill you.  And I don’t want to do that yet.”

James’s mind was clearing quickly, experience being a cruel teacher in the laws of battle: this was why the element of surprise killed.  Shock crippled a person.  Already, it had cost James precious seconds in which Silva had gained the upper hand, and now James was forced to lower his hands to his sides.  

More men stepped out from behind Silva, all of them looking as fresh as daisies.  “Surprised to see us?” Silva asked, transparently pleased, a kind of pride that Bond remembered from their war-days together.  Silva’s smugness could smother small countries.  “I’m afraid that me and my closest associates were just leaving to scout out the area, and it made us a little bit late to the party.”

Pushing himself angrily up onto his elbows, James swore, cursing himself for not realizing this possibility - he and Q hadn’t waited long enough to spot Silva, and that had been because Silva wasn’t even there.  Now they were going to pay for it, although at least Q was up top and out of reach.  

But not out of mind, sadly.  Silva let Bond sit up, but cocked his head, his emotionless eyes lighting with a cold fire of interest as he asked, “Who were you calling to, James?  It’s not like you to work with a partner.  In fact...”  Silva’s grin grew poisonous, and James felt a thick and searing anger eating up his insides because he knew what Silva was going to say even before the pale-haired man finished, “...I thought you’d learned to work alone ever since I put that pretty little girl of yours in the ground.”

Generally speaking, acting out of anger was reckless and stupid.  Being goaded into action was usually a quick way to be killed.  However, that was with normal people: James was a fast bastard, angry or not, and he knew a thing or two about having guns aimed at him.  Even as anger took hold and filled him up with a sulfurous rage, James rolled to the side, so that when Silva pulled the trigger, the bullet tore into the empty ground.  As soon as James came to a stop again, he had a knife - easier and faster to pull than his pistols, ironically - in hand and winging through the air.  Unfortunately, Silva was fast, too, so instead of taking a blade in the throat, the man behind Silva shrieked and took the intended hit in the point of his shoulder.  

Bond didn’t wait for anyone else to draw on him.

It was Q’s shop all over again, only this time, Bond’s decision not to shoot was less because he feared being blown up and more because he knew he was outgunned.  However, while each of these men - about seven plus Silva, including the one James had already wounded - had guns, James was willing to bet that they didn’t have his hand-to-hand combat training.  They looked young and green, not like they’d been through combat - not enough scars, not enough death in their eyes - whereas James had held hands with Death before and wrestled it into the dirt beneath him.  So when James charged, he wasn’t surprised when more than a few men raised their guns in pure shock.  

“James-!” Silva shouted in imperious warning, his own mind less prone to surprise, but he was still recovering from dodging James’s knife, and the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.  Guns were ranged weapons, and Silva’s damn pride had encouraged him to get entirely too close.

Only one person got off a shot, and it whistled through James’s shirt but missed the rest of him, and then Bond was in the thick of things and showing why you did, indeed, bring a knife to a gunfight.  

Bond threw the second knife, watching it cleave down the line of a man’s wrist and throw off his aim as he yelped and yanked his gun-hand away from the pain.  Another man tried to swing around and aim at James, but by then, James was surrounded by his enemies - which was just the way he liked it, because soon someone else was shouting, “Don’t shoot, you idiot, you’ll hit me instead!”  Grinning, James pivoted and slammed his elbow into the nearest body, taking great pleasure in the painful grunt of exhaled air he  got in return.  Seconds later, of course, someone took a swing at him.  And another man grabbed him from behind.  

At which point Bond decided guns weren’t entirely useless at close range, as he reached up for his holstered pistol on the right, and instead of unholstering it, just depressed the trigger.  Hissing at the flare of heat from the discharge so near his side, and lamenting the ruined holster, Bond nonetheless grunted in approval as the man behind him shrieked, let go, and fell away.  Still off-balance himself, however, James took a punch to the jaw that snapped his head to the side, rattling him.  Feeling dazed, James’s instincts were still good enough for him to slash outwards with his left hand, where a knife had materialized like an old friend - reflexes and a plethora of hidden knives were beautiful things.  He felt the blade bite into something, scrape bone, maybe a hand, but then a body was carrying him to the ground and the world became a blur of motion and harsh breaths.  The air was knocked out of him on impact, his knife-hand forced to the ground.

But Bond had two hands, and the other one came up empty but in a more than serviceable fist.  He slammed it into his attacker’s throat with all of his considerable strength, and grinned viciously when the man jerked and choked, but the sound said no air was getting through.  Knowing that he was going to have a corpse on top of him soon, James took in a breath, expanding his abused lungs after his fall, prepared to move-

And heard, shockingly enough, the bark of a gun, and all the air was punched out of him again in one blast of pain.  

It took a second for Bond to realize, on a primal level, that he had a corpse over him: not a man with a crushed windpipe slowly choking to death, but a man who no longer tried to breathe, no longer clawed at his throat or gulped for air.  Just a corpse, with blood dripping out of a hole in his chest.  James was spackled with that gory redness, but the real problem was the hot pain that felt like it had lanced through the right side of his chest.  As Bond snarled and instinctively grabbed for the wound, feeling more blood - his own blood - seeping through his fingers, Silva hove into view and blocked out the sun as he kicked his own man off Bond.  Silva’s pistol was smoking at his side.  

“You know, I cannot stand incompetence,” Silva was saying, and it was hard to tell who he was talking to: James, whom he promptly knelt down on, his knee digging painfully into James’s sternum - or his own men, who had backed up and were looking at their boss with shock and fear in their eyes.  Silva only had eyes for James, however, as he pushed down hard enough that James’s ribs creaked and he gasped.  Shock, again, was making him slow, giving Silva the upper hand.  “And as for you, James, if you go for a knife one more time, I’ll blow out your kneecap,” Silva threatened in the same completely relaxed tone, pushing the muzzle of his gun against James’s right knee before further action could be taken.  Silva smiled, slow but wide, pleasant but poisoned.  “You’re really quite a thorn in my side, do you know that?  And now, here you go, killing all of these disreputable men that I’ve worked so hard to gather.”  Silva jerked back, just barely evading the punch James aimed his way, and for a brief moment there was a scuffle.  But of the two of them, James was more tired and more injured, and it ended with Bond roaring in pain as Silva’s hand slithered in, pressing his thumb into the new wound on James’s upper chest.  

Silva’s smile deepened, and the closest thing to emotion that Silva ever felt glowed in his almond-shaped eyes.  This is what had made Silva a good soldier: the utter mercilessness, the lack of passion that led to regret.  It was also what made him such a horrifying human being when the war was over.  “Now James, I don’t want to hurt you.  I never have,” he cooed, then suddenly scowled and dug his thumb in deeper while James tried to push his arm away.  Silva hissed as they struggled, “But you just won’t bloody do as you’re told…!”

His words were interrupted by another shot, this one further but somehow stronger, the sound echoing off of the mountains around, and Silva shouted in pain above Bond. Since Bond had been the one everyone was shooting lately, he just blinked for a second, then looked past-

And saw Q.  

Standing with his legs slightly apart, his back straight, posture impeccable, and shotgun ready to shoot, he looked like something out of a dream - or maybe that was the pain talking. He kept aiming at Silva, not moving, presumably not  _ breathing _ , just… waiting.  Fortunately, everyone else was waiting, too, trying to get a grasp on the situation.  Distantly, James felt the urge to laugh, because if Silva hadn’t shot his own man just seconds ago, the rest of his cronies might have been a bit more ready to leap to his aid and shoot the skinny young man now menacing them with a shotgun.  

Silva had fallen back from James, but only enough so that he wasn’t crushing the air out of him.  Still, the sight of blood seeping down Silva’s left arm from where the shotgun blast had torn across his shoulder made James’s spirits lift considerably, even as he felt his own wounds - and blood-loss - begin to catch up with him.  Looking positively wild, panting past the pain, Silva rounded on Q and for a moment glared bloody murmur at him.  Then, suddenly, he grinned, the expression like an unsettling slash across his face.  “Ahhhh,” Silva gasped out, a bit less smoothly than his usual musical tones.  He still had a grip on his own gun, but James noted the way his arm shook, the pain radiating across both shoulders from Q’s one devastating shot.  “You’re the one our mutual friend was calling out to - the boy from the shop.  If I’d known that you were more than a shop-keeper…”  Silva paused, tried to surreptitiously firm up his grip on his pistol, and went on in a voice meant to hurt, “Well, if I’d known that you were James’s doxy, I’d have treated you to the same hospitality I showed James’s last lover.”  

That wound would never heal, James thought, as he tensed his muscles and bared his teeth - only to find himself looking down the barrel of Silva’s gun as the man swung it around.  “I’m not talking to you, James,” Silva purred, splitting his attention, but glancing back at Q and waiting for a response.  

That was when Q moved for the first time - he lowered the gun, but just so he could pop it open, the two burned bullet cases flying out, and put another two bullets into the magazine. 

“Move away from him,” Q said finally, and was Bond imagining it or was Q’s voice different? “Or the next one will be to your head.”

“Ooh, protective, aren’t we?” Silva said, with a kind of disregard for his own life that had gotten a lot scarier since Bond had known him.  The pale-dressed man’s eyes positively gleamed as they fixed on Q and pushed the muzzle of his own pistol so hard against James’s temple that he had to turn his head to the side against the ground.  “James must work fast, to have gained your loyalty already.  How long could he have known you, hm?  Days?  Did you get here  _ days _ ahead of me, James?”  He glanced back, mostly checking that Bond was still bleeding out and docile, then smoothly went back to Q, “It makes me wonder what your loyalty costs, because you don’t look like my men, who fight for the thrill of it, and the money.”

Presently, Silva’s men were still shifting uncomfortably.  They weren’t in the line of Q’s gun, and seemed quite happy keeping it that way, having seen what a shotgun blast would do to a body.  The only things immune to the tension, it seemed, were the horses - the loyal few having actually wandered back, ears pricked curiously.

Seeing that Q wasn’t keen on answering, Silva pressed, seeking a weakness like a coyote following a blood trail, “What did he do to keep you, boy?  To get you to die for him?  Because that’s what you’re going to do: die.”

James had been watching the horses, watching Q, eyeing the gun pressed to his head from the corner of his eyes.  He saw the way Q was tensed, uncertain but determined, and also tired from what had to be a hellish climb up and down that rock-face; he saw that Silva was doing what he usually did, torturing rather than just killing, playing with his food; he saw the way one of the horses had wandered up until it was just a stride or two away…

Trying to ignore the gun for a moment, James cleared his throat, swallowed back the pains in his body, and growled with all the violence in him, “Like hell.”

Silva’s eyes snapped back to Bond even if the rest of him didn’t move.  “Mommy and Daddy are talking, James, stop interrupting,” Silva chided, but a muscle in his cheek jumped.  If James was in pain, and frustrated, then so was Silva.

“Oh, so  _ you’re _ the one fucking Q,” James growled back, the words tasting rotten in his mouth, but he pushed them out anyway, baring his teeth, “And here I thought you were working your way up to accusing me of that.”  The words were having an effect; Silva’s men, already uncertain of their leader, were starting to mutter.  Homosexuality in a small town was one thing - amidst a bunch of already nasty outlaws, it was quite another.  

More and more of Silva’s attention - and temper - was moving back to James, which would either be exactly what James wanted, or get his head blown off.  So, of course, James forged onwards as if the second option didn’t exist, “Come off it, Silva, stop pretending.  If you’d wanted to kill me or Q, you’d have done it already.  What do you really want, hm?”  Bond stretched his smile, made it lascivious, wicked, a mask made to look as good as honey but taste like turpentine.  Now Silva’s men were openly disgusted, and Silva was focused all on Bond, and furious.  

And when Silva - because no matter how mad he was, he was a sadist, who couldn’t kill before he abused his prey and got the last word - drew back his gun to pistol-whip Bond, James heaved his whole body and punched Silva hard in the shoulder.  The injured one.  When Silva recoiled and bellowed in agony, James grit out, “Turnabout is fair play,” even as he scrambled to his knees as fast as he could, and all but lunged for the one horse that had wandered near.  

Everyone was startled, but James had weakened Silva’s connection to his cronies enough that no bullets flew - except Silva’s, but it went hopelessly wide, driven by fury but tangled up in pain.  James himself was hurting like hell, but adrenalin and discipline did a lot, and he managed to swing up onto the horse’s back without blacking out or getting bucked right back off.  Leaning low over the horse’s neck as much to make a small target of himself as to keep his balance as his vision swam, James barked, “Q!” and spurred the horse right at him.

Q’s face lit up in surprise but he quickly gathered his wits, hung his shotgun over his shoulder and outstretched his hand, catching Bond’s forearm and hauling himself behind him, landing at the back of the saddle and immediately wrapping his hands around Bond’s torso so tightly that his burned ribs almost made him scream in pain.  Passing out wasn’t an option yet, though, so James clung to the reins, trusted that Q would cling to him.

And then he got them the hell out of there.  


	7. The Hurt Jackal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back! We apologize for the LOOONG wait, but this has been a busy time for us all. Last month was the 00Q month and as many of you might know, Truth was VERY active throughout the thirty days, and continues to upload Schiamanchy at a mind boggling pace. I was... Let's say indisposed (depressed, sick, full time employed, moving towns, starting a new career...).
> 
> I can't make any promises on how long the wait will be for the next chapter, since it depends on Springbok, who is our beta, but as we said earlier, the story is finished and will never get abandoned.
> 
> Dora

They’d gotten clear of Silva and his men, but Bond was barely sitting upright in the saddle anymore and fading fast, the reins slipping from his stubborn hands. Q went from holding unto him to holding him up and basically trying to keep the horse on track, which he managed with the help of a small miracle. Fortunately their hiding spot - the small wall of rocks at the top of Lavender Pit - wasn’t far away, and they were approaching it slowly but steady.

“Bond!” Q tried to rouse the older man but he was currently almost unconscious, just barely holding on. “Come on, don’t leave me in it… Bond! Wake up!”

Q had to rein in the horse. Bond’s body was too heavy for him, he could not hold him up. When the horse stopped moving, he dismounted and lead him the rest of the way, with the gunman leaning forward weakly across the horse’s neck.

He was losing blood quickly and Q hated to think it might be too late for him by the time they finally got to their destination.

It took another five minutes until they reached the top and Q guided Bond in a controlled slide off the horse and into the shade of the stone. The horses were still tied to it but clearly not happy with their position in the sun and without much grass to keep them occupied, and Q realized that they might be hungry after hours of carrying the humans around. Q himself would be hungry if he wasn’t crashing from his adrenaline high. His hands were shaking heavily and his head was spinning.  By this point, Bond was deadweight - fully unconscious against the stone - and no help whatsoever.  

Q managed to lay him down without banging his head much and causing him a concussion on top of all his injuries, and began working on patching him up. It was a welcome distraction. If he had something to do with his hands and something to think about, he wasn’t coming back to that waterfall over and over again, imagining all the dead bodies he left behind him, all the blood and the smell of burned gunpowder. He first looked at the shoulder wound, glad to find it bleeding much less than he anticipated. He unbuttoned Bond’s shirt to get a better view of the damage, and then decided to peel it off of Bond completely and use it as a bandage. Getting it from under Bond was the hardest part of that mission - that man was heavy as a horse and injured enough to be a pity case.

When he finally had him half naked, he unhooked one of the bottles at his belt and poured a bit of water over the wound, washing it. When the blood was partly gone, he realized he would have to get the bullet out of the wound - something he really wasn’t happy about. But he saw how Silva shot him - it was through another body, which meant that the slug was slower when it entered Bond's flesh, which in turn explained why it didn't come out the other way. So he washed his hand thoroughly, hoping for the best and regretting they had no alcohol at hand, and stuck his fingers in Bond’s shoulder.  

That got a reaction when nothing else had.  Instantly, every muscle in Bond’s body locked up, abdominal muscles straining and shoulders going taut; the pectoral muscle beneath Q’s hand felt rigid.  A snarled cry escaped Bond’s mouth as his body tried to arch away from the pain, still semiconscious at best.  

Q jumped at that, startled, but quickly regrouped. He had to keep Bond down, just for a few moments - he could have sworn he felt that bullet on the first try. He looked at the length of Bond’s body, still in a painful spasm, and decided. There was a burn on Bond's ribs on the same side as the bullet wound, so he avoided it as he straddled Bond’s hips and leaned against him, forearms coming up to rest on and push against his right pectoral. He pushed the body under him down and prepared to go in again.

This time, the arching didn’t get Bond as far, as Q’s slight weight kept him still.  It was unsettling, and almost a rush, to feel that much power clench and then shudder again, this time underneath him.  That strength petered out quickly, though, although James’s teeth stayed bared in unconscious pain.  When Bond fell still again, Q dug in deeper, his fingers expanding the wound, and he cursed their luck for having absolutely nothing to help. Unfortunately, they didn’t think of bringing medical supplies with them, which in hindsight should have crossed their minds while preparing for a mission that would inevitably end in blood.

Finally he gripped the bullet and pulled it out, causing the older man to shout something slurred that was probably an expletive.  Even with his eyes still closed, his body grew animated again for a moment, and  Q startled  when he saw a hand move, incredibly fast for a man who was barely there right now, gripping Q’s thigh in a bruising grip.  After the bullet was out and Q’s hand withdrawn, however, James eased again, with a soft moan, muscles relaxing and body relaxing back against the ground like a sated beast.  

Q breathed out air he realized he’s been holding in since he sat on Bond, and after the bullet dropped from his fingers to the ground, he sagged against Bond’s body like a puppet with its strings cut. The grip Bond had on his thigh for just a second brought him back to reality better than anything else - the sudden pain woke up something in him, and he had no idea if it was good or bad. He rested his forehead in the middle of Bond’s collar bones, breathing deeply, his hands unconsciously curling around Bond’s biceps until he realized that he was touching another bleeding spot. He straightened a little and looked at the arm, seeing that Bond had a gash slicing the top of his bicep, and that this wound was currently leaking more blood than the shoulder wound, which was now under the press of Bond’s shirt. Q cursed but acted soberly, taking the shirt and tearing it until he had a long strip that he wrapped around both the wounds, thanks to how close by they were. 

When he was done, he moved to the burn on the gunman's ribs, but there was nothing he could do - maybe he could go to the town and buy a salve? And if he did go, there were so many other things he needed - bandages, alcohol, new ammo…

As he thought about that, he kept looking Bond over for any more injuries, but apart from bruises practically everywhere he couldn’t see anything else that needed his immediate attention. His eyes snapped to his face only to find a pair of half-open blue eyes regarding him.

He startled, realizing that he was practically sitting on Bond while he was probably in a lot of pain. But before he could get up, the hand still on his thigh tightened again, Bond’s other hand mirroring it on the other side as the gunman rasped groggily, “Leaving so soon?”

Q was stunned for a moment, just staring into Bond’s scarily blue eyes. There was a bruise forming on his jaw, the only part of his body that was injured on his left side. It was starting to shine with colours, the red morphing into blue with every minute.

He swallowed. Bond’s eyes, although as blue as the sky above them, were far from clear, and he was probably off his tits from pain. 

“You should rest,” he reasoned when he found his voice. The shock was leaving him, or he was too distracted to give it the attention it deserved, and he was quickly becoming more and more aware of the body under his thighs, the sheer strength of the muscles. Even now, if Bond wanted, he could probably overpower Q with minimal effort.

He shouldn’t be finding that so damn attractive.

Briefly, Bond seemed to not understand, brows drawing together as if he’d forgotten that he was injured.  In an example of a very delayed reaction, two heartbeats later, he flinched, hands flexing on Q’s thighs.  “Damn,” Bond growled thickly, “What the hell…?”  The question petered off, but instead of settling, Bond grew more restless.

“You’ve been shot, Bond,” Q told him and it seemed crazy considering that Bond must have felt it, and that he seemed very conscious at the time, but that was probably just adrenaline keeping him alive. “You should sleep, you need to get back on your feet quite soon.”

It was few more moments before it all seemed to sink in, including the memories of the past few hours, and finally Bond just thumped his head back against the ground and groaned again, low and deep.  “Damn,” he repeated, and this time when his eyes opened again, they were clearer, a bit more piercing shade of blue without the haze.  They stared up for a moment then flicked to Q.  “I take it we lost Silva and his merry gang of bastards?  No thanks to me, as I don’t recall a second of it...”

“Mind you,” Q said in a much icier tone. “I am the only reason you are still alive and not stretched in three still living pieces across some stone in the middle of nowhere with Silva poking you with a hot iron bar. And that “merry gang of bastards” is considerably smaller after I shot about twenty of them.”

Bond actually chuckled - for a second, then he remembered that everything hurt and stopped.  He appeared to either not mind Q still sitting on his stomach, or not notice.  “Easy, Q, that wasn’t a critique,” Bond said past a smile, letting his eyes close even as he continued to radiate a quiet level of alertness.  And his hands were still rested on Q’s thighs, just above his knees.  Then he frowned, cracked his eyes open, and struggled to push himself up and look down at himself. That made Q topple over and slide back, but he quickly pushed himself up and pressed down on Bond’s chest with his hand.

“Don’t be stupid, lie down!” he hissed. “You’re like a child. You have a bullet wound in your shoulder, a knife wound ten inches from that and your ribs  _ right under that  _ are burned! Could you…” he tried to push the bigger man down again, which he was failing at. “... settle down?!”  He may as well have been swearing at his horse, for all that the gunman listened, and soon James was inspecting his wounds for himself while Q was left toppled backwards awkwardly against Bond’s drawn-up knees.  Oblivious to Q’s presence, James looked at his bandaged upper arm, grunting in approval, then at his chest-wound, just starting to stain the bandage, and he finally frowned.  

“I did what I could,” Q mumbled, partly disgruntled by Bond’s complete disregard of his words and partly ashamed that he couldn’t do more.  Blue eyes flicked up at his tone, and then Q was staring into that glass-sharp gaze again from close range,  intimately aware that he was sitting on the man’s lap with James half-naked.  He looked down, not realizing that that would make it worse, staring at Bond’s bare chest, but he didn’t even have it in him to blush - the absence of adrenaline leaving him tired and worn out, and there were still so many memories trying to force their way into his consciousness…

“Q.”  Just one word, one letter, his name, said in that low register and with so much calm.  It brought the world into focus even before one big hand landed gently on his shoulder.  “You did well.  We’re both alive, and that counts for a lot.”

The last air left Q in a rush and he closed his eyes, leaning into the fiery heat of Bond’s hand - probably a fever starting. He could hear his heartbeat, feel it in his chest, and he counted two beats before his resolve broke and he was on Bond, kissing him hungrily.

Bond jolted in surprise, just for a second, then his mouth opened, catching Q’s lips with the kind of skill that only came from  _ a lot _ of practice.  Bond still needed one hand to keep himself upright, but the other hand found itself on Q’s thigh again, before sliding up to cup his flank, just above Q’s hipbone.  With no questions asked, Bond kissed him back, a low noise bubbling at the back of his throat. Q never understood the books that talked about how kisses and mouths tasted, but he always enjoyed the differences in people’s techniques, the softness of their lips, work of their tongues, stubble scraping his cheeks… and that was what he needed right now - to lose himself in another person, for someone to steal his breath - he wanted to struggle and be in someone’s power.

But when he hugged Bond tighter, crushing their bodies together, the gunman hissed in pain. Q broke the kiss, immediately shaking off the trance, realizing what he was doing. Bond was in no shape to do any of this!  _ They _ were in no shape of doing this, they could NOT have sex in a more inappropriate situation than this.

He sat up, his eyes wide, his breath quick, and stared at Bond, taking in his handsomeness - and it was ridiculous that the man looked that good when half dead and with bloodshot eyes. Somehow, he looked even better, but that Q blamed on his messed up taste.

“Is this the part,” Bond hazarded very cautiously, wetting his lips, “where you give me a lecture about appropriate conduct between two men?”

That startled Q into laughter that got carried away into being maybe a bit maniacal.

“No,” he said between giggles. “No, Mr. Bond, I will not. I will, however, lecture you about being a good patient who doesn’t want to die overnight and stays in a restful position that allows them to get their blood back to normal levels again. Also you need to eat. And then sleep.”

“With or without you sitting on me?” James said, with a quirk of his mouth and the crows’-feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. Q was tempted to say “with”, but his rational part won and he finally moved off of Bond without another word, as the man shifted himself a bit so that he could remain sitting up without needing to brace himself.

Q found the loaf of bread they had started eating that morning, and some cheese, and kneeled with it and with the half full bottle of water by the gunman's head.

“Do you want me to feed you?” he asked matter of factly.

Bond’s eyes lit up, but after an amused huff he apparently decided that just getting food was more important that teasing his companion.  “No, I can feed myself,” he said amicably, and took some for himself.  He grimaced and touched his jaw gingerly as he chewed, but otherwise did well for as battered as he was.  If nothing else, Bond did a good impression of being indestructible, although as soon as he was done eating, he had to scoot back and lean heavily against the nearest rock.  He swore again, quietly.  “So,” Bond sighed, something on his mind, “About what Silva said… what  _ I _ said…”

“Remembering now?” Q raised his eyebrows.

Bond winced, almost harder than he winced when he moved his right arm.  “I remember just fine now,” he retorted tetchily, not meeting Q’s eyes.  After a moment, he continued in a mumble, “Silva likes to hurt things, always has.  It’s something both of us got good at during the war, but that he always  _ liked _ .  But it’s also a weakness, because he’s got an ego the size of Texas, so I knew that if I deflated it a little…“ Bond huffed out a sigh, stopped staring down at his hands, and instead leaned his head back against the rock and just stared skyward.  “I’m not making excuses,” he said hotly, but apparently to himself, “I’m apologizing.  I didn’t mean what I said.  To Silva.  About you.”    

Q hummed noncommittally and  when Bond looked at him,  he was staring into space. “You know,” he said finally, not looking at Bond. “I’m not that stupid. I knew why you were doing it. It’s not hard to figure out that Silva likes to  _ play _ . And I don’t know if you noticed it, but the men around him were even more strongly hit by the realization that the two of you are talking about sodomy, and maybe that was the reason why they didn’t just shoot us.” He turned his gaze on Bond. “Thanks for minding my feelings, James, but I’m not a damsel in distress. You won’t offend me by insinuating I got fucked by a guy. Even though Silva is one ugly fucker.”

The last comment got Bond to flash a surprised smile, and then the gunman truly relaxed, groaning as bruised muscles finally eased and injuries twinged.  “Okay,” was all he came up with to say, repeating it as if to accept it before going on, “Okay.  Good.  Well, at least we know that Silva is working with a lot less back-up now, although I don’t doubt his ability to coax a few men back to his way of thinking.  Silva’s good at that.  Fortunately for us, he can’t coax back dead people, nor can he magically undo what someone did to his shoulder.”  Bond smirked and had the energy to nudge Q with his boot. Q couldn't hold back his answering smile although it was just a reaction to Bond’s charm, not  pride in what he had done. Shooting Silva was an achievement, yes. He wasn't feeling very guilty for letting him escape, he did much better than he expected of himself for someone who had been a pacifist his whole life. What bothered him was that he no longer  _ was _ a pacifist. There was a stain on his character that would remain there for the rest of his life. Q Boothroyd, shop keeper, had killed twenty people. And counting.

But to be honest, he didn't feel any worse as a person. Yes, he felt exhausted in this moment, but strangely he didn't think of himself any less. He wasn't suddenly becoming a criminal mastermind, or a threat to society. No, he was still himself at his core, and the fact that he had killed didn't change that. Not the feeling he expected, after so many years spent with his father.

“I was too harsh with you,” he admitted to Bond. “When I called you a criminal.”

One blond eyebrow arched.  Bond had been inspecting the bandaging around his bullet-wound with the sort of destructive curiosity usually found in small children and dogs, but thankfully focused back on Q before he started to peel the stripes of cloth back.  “I’ve had people be harsh with me before,” he shrugged it off, a smile ghosting across his mouth, “and trust me, Q, you weren’t.  Although if I knew you’d be nice to me after just one kiss, I’d have tried my luck sooner.”  He winked as he finished, incredibly cheeky for a man who still looked tired and entirely too pale to be healthy.

Q sighed, exasperated. “Are you going to be insufferable about it forever?”

“If I live that long...” Bond considered, scratching distractedly at his well-muscled stomach as he looked upwards for inspiration, then answered, “Most likely.  You’re definitely on the list of the top five best nurses I’ve ever had, and it really was a rather nice kiss.”

Q rolled his eyes. He thought he was doing a rather spectacular job of not ogling Bond’s upper body the whole time they were speaking, even masking how gladly he would sit next to Bond and spend the rest of the day kissing every part of his body. 

The daylight was slowly dimming, the sun ceased its aggressive attack on their heads, setting slowly behind the red hills. Evening was coming, and Q couldn’t believe that it has been only a few hours since they left Fairbank, and even more incredibly, only a day since he first met Bond and Silva and his life was disturbed enough to maybe never be put back to the way it had been before. 

“You should go to sleep,” he said, breaking his own train of thoughts. There was no sense in delving into the past, however recent it was.   

“Q, going to sleep won’t make this go away.  Silva is still out there,” James reminded, his playful mood from earlier having been soured by reality.  However, this time when he tried to sit up, the pain  _ did _ stop him.  He subsided with a frustrated grimace. Q winced with him in a show of empathy.

“Yes, and that’s why you need to sleep, to gain strength and heal your wounds. You can’t possibly think you can do a damn thing like this. Will it help… if I stay near you?”

Surprised blue eyes flicked over, Q’s last sentence apparently enough of a distraction to forget the pending danger of Silva.  Of course, the surprise only lasted as long as it took for James to slap on a smile, eyes dancing, “Is that an offer, Q?”

Q had to fight his own smile in order not to ignite even more fire in the other man’s eyes. “Yes,” he said finally. “But not the kind you think. To be honest I would be seriously surprised if you were good for anything right now. That is not a challenge!” he added quickly  when he saw the other man was already forming a rebuttal.  “I just thought…” his words faltered. He was not used to showing people this side of himself. Especially not people like Bond. He told himself this was for Bond’s benefit, but he rationally knew that what he desired after the day’s horrible events was probably not what Bond wanted. But he might die in a few hours so what of it, he could risk a bit. If not now, when? “... maybe you would feel better if you weren’t alone.”

Calming slightly at Q’s softer tone, James just eyed him for a moment.  It felt like being picked apart, those eyes on him so keen, sharp like razors but fortunately gentler.  “What exactly are you asking for, Q?” Bond finally queried more softly. Q looked down, made aware that Bond saw right through him.

“Silva will wait the night out, just like us. He can’t do anything this soon, without men and with a wounded shoulder. We should sleep.”

Then he looked up, hoping he didn’t look like a lost puppy, because that was how he felt. “Will you sleep with me?” he bit his lip, knowing how that sounds. “Near me?” he added. He felt his heart in his chest going wild, hoped that Bond wouldn’t laugh at him, or worse - agree to it with a sour expression, against his own wishes.

For a moment, it looked like he’d get the latter, as James mentally stumbled, but the surprise on his features evened out after just a few moments.  For most of the time Q had known the man (however short that time was), Bond had presented himself as a mass of energy like a storm, but now it felt as though all that power were withdrawing beneath his skin, leaving a… rare calm.  James lifted an arm - his left one, the least injured one - invitingly.  “I suppose a few hours of rest wouldn’t hurt,” he murmured.  

Q blinked a few times, shocked that his attempt was successful. Before he knew it, he was pulled towards that outstretched hand, like iron filings drawn to a magnet, and curled in against Bond’s good side. The older man’s body made him almost dizzily tired, as if breathing in the scent of dirt and blood was soporific. Suddenly his head was spinning into unconsciousness so quickly he was afraid he was fainting. He forced his eyes open, even as James’s arm curled around his back like a wing slotting naturally into place.

Bond’s body was a stone made of flesh, his muscles not giving way to Q’s weight much, but it was calming. He felt secure. He hugged Bond’s mid waist, avoiding the ribs, and placed his head upon James’s collarbone, fitting nicely in the space under his armpit.  Bond’s chest rose briefly, drawing in air as if to speak, but then the gunman seemed to think better of it, instead just sighing the breath out again, soft and warm as it rustled Q’s hair. The arm behind Q’s shoulders grew a bit more certain,  wringing a tiny gasp out of Q  as it went from passively embracing to tightly holding: Q was tucked snugly into James’s body like the gunman was determined not to lose him.  

“Just a few hours,” Bond cautioned, trying to sound gruff but mostly just sounding like fatigue was getting to him.  His other hand was draped lazily over his stomach, but flexed briefly,  and Q fancied  that Bond was rather missing the comforting feel of some weapon or other.  Then, surprisingly, the hand moved further and found something else to grip: Q’s wrist.  Bond continued as if he hadn’t even noticed his own movements, “Then we’ve got to move.  If I know Silva, even your shotgun wound won’t slow him down for long.”   

Q nodded slightly, focused on the hand gripping his. He twisted his so his own palm could reach Bond’s forearm, and circled his fingers around the limb. Bond was still too hot for it to be natural, but that was another thing they couldn’t do anything about. His thumb moved in slow strokes against the veins on Bond's wrist, and his eyes drooped closed.


	8. Under The Burning Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, the whole fic is beta read and therefore ready for posting! There are three more chapters plus one Epilogue to go, so I'd say let's give it a month? 
> 
> This chapter, not for the first time, depicts some unfortunate ideas of the time about black people. I hope I don't have to stress out that this is just in the name of accuracy, NOT because we'd agree with any such views. 
> 
> The chapter is also partly set in a brothel, and we recommend you to look into how women were the best badasses ever to badass, because prostitutes in the Wild West were seriously amazing.
> 
> And lastly, THIS is the chapter with Q in a corset. Thank us later. In the comments. We get off on it.
> 
> Enjoy!

The morning sun hit Q’s face, stinging his eyes with its full force. The edge of the pit didn’t provide them with any shade apart from the rock they were hiding behind, which obviously didn’t do much to save Q’s eyesight. He slowly opened his eyes, shading them with one hand, and looked around to judge the situation. Bond and he had changed positions during the night - he faintly remembered how they fell asleep, he on top of Bond, and it made his stomach clench uncomfortably while at the same time heat was pooling in his underbelly. Heat that was threatening to do more than just warm him, and he bit his lip when he realized he had a morning erection, which would be nothing unusual if it wasn’t for the body pressed against him, which normally wasn’t there in similar situations.

He was currently lying on his side, with Bond’s face buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder, but the rest of Bond, apart from his healthy hand, was lying against Q's back. Bond was probably avoiding the pain that must have shot through him every time he wanted to twist in his sleep, but was obviously seeking the warmth of Q’s body. Q could feel his hot breath on his neck and that wasn’t helping his… situation.

But then Q realized that the forehead and nose pressed against his skin were too hot to be healthy. Bond was still covered by the shadow the rock was casting, so his skin wasn’t heated up by the sun. He must have a fever. Very unsurprising, but quite worrying. It was also probably the reason why he didn’t stir at all when Q turned to look at him closer.

He was struck by just how handsome Bond was. He had seen it before, of course, but he was always distracted by something, never in peace like this and so close to him. Now, he could just lie back and watch the gunman’s calm face, not twisting in pain or rage, not even with the mask of charm that he liked to wear so much. Q felt like he was finally looking at the real James Bond. And he liked it. He liked the stubble that was very slowly growing into a beard, he liked the little wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the never-smooth crease of his brows above the root of his nose, the thin lips, the slightly prominent ears. There was blood on his chin, and the left side of his jaw, the side closer to Q, was shining with every shade of blue. But he was stunning. Absolutely bloody stunning.

Fortunately, Q’s bladder forced him to get up - slowly, as to not wake Bond up - and go about his morning routine. He ached to have more medical supplies, at least for wound cleaning if nothing else, even though it was too late for that. And there were other things they needed - their ammunition was running dangerously low, it looked like they would need more food, and most importantly, they needed to actually  _ eat _ that food, because in the last two days they'd eaten less than a child in one day, and that was messing with their energy levels. He could also use some intel and to ask around if anyone has seen Silva. He had a contact in the nearby town of Bisbee, another gunshop owner, people like him would know the most - since Q got rid of everything in his own shop, Silva would have to find a different one, and the one in Bisbee seemed like the most rational option.

Q looked in the direction of Bisbee. It was really close. Just behind that hill. He could make it there in half an hour, even on foot. The road lead right to it, and Silva’s gang was eliminated from that path. Unless the few men he had still stood with him and guarded the entrance to the town, in which case he could go through where the Copper Queen Mine site was, just outside the town. If Bond had a fever, he could very possibly sleep the whole time and only wake up when Q was back, with all they needed.

He decided while feeding the horses their old bread. If he waited for Bond to wake up, the gunman would not let him go alone, surely wanting to go with him as if Q were a child. That wouldn’t help anyone. So he packed the money he had into an empty bag and left, on foot, in the direction of the mine.

This early in the morning the town was swarming with people. His heart hurt as he walked past them, the businessmen, the workers, the miners, the shop owners, the housewives out shopping… he used to be one of them, just a few days ago - in a different town, where they probably had him pegged for a criminal… in a town where his own father would hate him the most if he were labeled one.

He forced himself to think about practicalities - medical supplies first, ammunition next, food last. He found the town apothecary. Inside, the smell of herbs hit him hard. He was unused to such quantities of herbs, all piled up on the shelves, such a different smell from the stink of the road and blood and regret.

“How can I help you?” a voice cut through his haze and he realized he’s been standing in the door like an idiot for a minute. He shook his thoughts and walked deeper in, meeting a man in a nice suit and a nicer smile.

“Good mornin’, sir,” he tried to smile but was afraid he wasn’t capable of it anymore with complete strangers. He used to be pleasant to anyone he met. Now, new people made him wary. “I need some alcohol and something for disinfection of wounds, and bandages. And something against fever, too.” He was trying to think of anything else Bond needed. “And a salve against burns, if you have some, please.”

The man in front of him lifted his eyebrows but didn’t question anything, instead he went deeper into the shop and started pulling out small drawers scattered around. Q looked around while he waited, and when the apothecary brought him everything he asked for, he reached for his money.

“Would you like me to help you apply them?” the man asked. Q hesitated. He must have seen that he wasn’t wounded, he was too mobile to have wounds AND burns on his body. Was he just curious? Or did he have an agenda? How should he react?

“No,” he said after a small pause, his hand moving again after a short stutter. He brought out the pouch that hid all his finances. “That’s alright. It’s just a small cut and a burn from cooking. Thank you.”

The other man’s surprisingly piercing brown eyes didn’t leave his face. He had an air about him of someone who saw right through you, but not in a menacing or authoritative way, more like an elderly wisewoman from a fairytale.

“Why don’t you use the back of my shop to clean yourself a little?” he asked finally, which surprised Q. When he wanted to protest, the man went on. “Trust me. You don’t want to go out looking like that.”

Q frowned. Was he that dirty? He looked at his hands - almost brown with the soil and dust and gunpowder that was staining them. Probably yes. So he accepted and followed the apothecary to a small room with a basin full of steaming water and a small crooked mirror, and was left alone.

One look into the mirror explained why the other man was suspicious. Q stood there for a moment, unable to form a coherent thought. The man looking back at him was unknown to him - he had Q's hair and jaw and cheekbones, but everything else was foreign. His eyes, even though the same colour and shape, were a stranger’s eyes. The stubble on his face had grown denser than Q ever let it. There was gunpowder on his right cheek, covering burns he never noticed he had. Q realized that the shotgun he used the day before probably burned everything it was close to, and that made him wonder what else he hadn't noticed on his body. He took off his shirt and the answer was surprising.

There were bruises on his body - not many, and in the usual places - his right shoulder was heavily bruised from the impact of the gun, his forearms were red from the heat of the gun-barrel that burned him every time it fired. 

He washed his face and hands. Scrubbing was painful, but he had to get the dirt out of his skin before he met anyone else, so he clenched his teeth and suffered through it and when he was done, the reflection was closer to the face he knew. Maybe if he could shave, he would feel himself.

When he stepped back into the front of the shop, the apothecary smiled at him more kindly and handed him his bag of supplies.

“Thank you,” Q said, meaning the hot water as much as the medicine. 

“You are welcome. I hope you are feeling better now.”

Q nodded. He took a few steps to walk out the door when the man’s words stopped him again.

“You should know this is the second time today someone needed tending to,” his voice didn’t change, he still sounded calm and unbothered, but Q stopped and tensed. “That gentleman, however, was not as polite about it as you. He might still be in town.”

Q nodded stiffly and left the shop, sticking the sack of supplies into his bag.

He needed to move quickly and with caution. If Silva was all patched up and promenading through Bisbee like a peacock, he needed to leave before the other man could see him. But he needed the ammunition, even if he didn’t get the food, so he quickly found the local gunshop.

It wasn’t nearly as well-stocked as his own shop, which made him slightly proud, but that pride quickly disappeared under the knowledge that his shop might be forever out of his reach. He clenched his fists, the pain from his forearms helping him ground himself. He couldn’t believe that up till this point he hadn't even noticed it - it was quite unpleasant.

The man behind the counter was  of Q’s height and with a pleasant air about him, but what surprised Q was his dark complexion. He had heard about him many times and was in contact with him, and he’d never heard that he was black. It was a strange thing, since the folks in this area always thought that worth mentioning, but it might have been proof of his competence, that people didn’t fixate on his skin colour.

“Good day, sir!” the man smiled at him and Q smiled back.

“Good day. Felix, isn’t it?” he walked to the counter, making the other man surprised. “Felix Leiter? My name is Q, we have been writing to each other for some time.”

Recognition crossed the other man’s features. “Q! Of course, nice to meet you. How can I help you, my good man?”

Q made small chit chat with the man while buying the ammunition he needed, talking about what they had already discussed in their letters to each other, which were admittedly short and focused on business. When he had everything he needed, he asked where would be best to buy food.

“You look hungry,” Felix nodded and gave him a once over. “You know what, why don’t we go to the saloon and have an early lunch? They can give you more food to go and trust me, you won’t find a better kitchen anywhere in the town.”

Q smiled politely but shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Felix, but I don’t want to spend much time in the town.”

“Are you certain? In half an hour, you can have the best broth you ever had.”

Q bit his lip. He  _ was _ really hungry, and he still  hadn’t ask ed Felix if he knew anything about Silva. Maybe he could do both at once, and bring Bond warm food. Broth would be the best solution for his upset stomach, if he could just get someone to put it into a bottle for him…

“You know what, alright,” he gave in. “But I have questions for you regarding a man that might have been here.”

Felix’s eyes shone with understanding.

“Ah, yes. You mean that blond one. We better go and eat before dipping into that pond.”

Ten minutes later they were sat in a saloon larger than the one in Tombstone, waiting for their lunch to be brought over, and Felix launched into the description of the last two days.

“He came on Thursday. First I was glad because he made a huge order, but something didn’t sit right about him. Two hours later, his gang was here, drinking and harassing the women, but we could do nothing. You know how men get. It wasn’t business for the sheriff. So we waited and they eventually left. But this morning he was back, alone and injured, and wanted the same as you, a lot of ammo.”

Q nodded with a frown. Nothing unexpected. He should be quick with his lunch and get back to Bond as soon as possible, and then… they’ll see. Bond’s physical state was his biggest worry in the long run. If Silva was also already preparing for a fight, they didn’t have much time, and his injuries weren’t as numerous as Bond’s.

“You should be careful, Q,” Felix’s tone grew even more serious. Q wasn’t surprised he linked it all together.

“Don’t worry about me, Felix. There are bigger things at stake than me.”

As he was saying this, Felix’s eyes stopped at something past him and his face froze in a slight frown.

“I do worry, Q,” he said almost silently. Q’s whole body grew tense. “Do not turn,” Felix warned. “He’s here. Talking to the bartender. You should go.”

Q was already skimming the room with his eyes, his heart beating fast. He ’d made a mistake. He should have left as soon as he had the ammunition - but no, he was too stupid to do that, had to have a warm meal. And now he  wouldn’t even eat it and  would probably die anyway. 

“I’ll cover you,” Felix suddenly said and the next thing he knew, he was walking towards Silva, his friendly voice echoing through the room. That was his sign - he grabbed his bag and walked swiftly towards the back rooms, the only way he could, hoping that there would be windows to climb out of. But the back room only led to the staircase to the upper floor. He ran up it and into the first room he found, shutting the door closed behind himself.

“Excuse me!”

He turned to see a woman, a surprisingly old woman for such an establishment. She was around seventy, but very swift, as she proved when she jumped out of her seat by a writing table by the wall. “You have the wrong room, young man, the girls are elsewhere.”

Her tone was very authoritative and it never rose above a speaking level, but Q got the impression she might be the boss or the boss’ wife. “I’m really sorry,” he simply said and ran to the window, looking for an escape route. If he wanted to get out, he would have to jump, and from this height that would very probably be bone shattering. He cursed.

“Young man, explain yourself!” the woman demanded. He winced. An interrogation was the last thing he needed.

“I’m sorry, madam, there is someone very unpleasant in the bar downstairs and I just want to leave. Is there any way I could…?”  H e looked at her, hoping the older woman would know about any alternative exits from the building.

Her grey eyes took only a second to assess him, then she was moving again. She took something from her closet while talking. “The only way out is through the front door. You have to hide.”

“Where?” he asked desperately. Maybe under the bed… in the closet?

The woman turned, holding something. “In plain sight.”

Q frowned at her, confused, and then looked more closely at what she was holding.

“No!”

They had no time to argue. Five minutes later, the door to the room opened again.

Q’s whole body froze. He was staring out of the window, his breath being literally pushed out of him by the old woman , who ’d introduced herself as M sometime between stripping him and hiding his clothes, just before she forced him into a blue dress, the bodice of which hung down over its skirt, and now he was leaning against the window, his back to the door, and she was fastening his corset. 

He gasped and his hand moved to his chest, touching the knife’s handle sticking out of the edge of the corset. Now he understood the practicality of small guns more than ever. 

“Excuse me!” M’s reaction was the same as when he had burst in, and he cursed internally, knowing that it hadn't stopped him, therefore had even less chance of stopping Silva.

“Madam, I hardly think that anyone in your profession can pretend embarrassment when a man walks in unannounced,” Silva’s low voice rolled into the room like a sweet fog from the direction of the doorway, although at least he sounded like he hadn’t stepped in any further - Q didn’t dare turn to look, lest he show his face.  Silva went on, and his tone took on a new, snide tone, “Regardless of one of your ladys' state of undress.”

Q had to fight himself hard not to let out a huge sigh of relief. He was not in the clear, but at least Silva did indeed think he was a woman, so there was a chance he wouldn't have to try to fight him or run from him in a corset.

“How dare you,” M let go of him and the corset didn't fall off his body, so it was presumably tied already, which was a miracle or incredible skill, because Q had seen one or two of those things from the back and they were a nightmare. “I am the owner of this establishment and this is my daughter. If you want one of the girls, their rooms are further down the hall. And they DO require you knock.”

“I’m shocked that your daughter is any less available.”  Silva’s words were spine-chilling, but thankfully, he also sounded like he was losing interest.  “Fortunately, I’m looking for something other than an available bitch at the moment, no matter the breeding, but it looks like I’ll have to keep hunting.”  Apparently dismissing M and her ‘daughter’ as a source of further information, Silva’s footsteps retreated and the door was slammed ungently closed.  

Q finally let out the breath he was holding in, and found that it was much smaller than he expected, probably thanks to the restrictive construction wound around his torso. He shoved his arms into the sleeves and turned to the door, finding it really closed, and then to M.

“I wouldn’t trust him to just go away when he doesn’t find you,” she said simply as she buttoned up the back of the dress. He frowned.

“Why…” it was not enough to ask why she was helping him. This whole situation was beyond rational thoughts. “What…” he tried again. Finally, he just said what he thought: “This is ridiculous. I’m in a dress.”

“Yes,” she raised her eyebrows. “And it suits you rather nicely.”

He glared at her. If she did it just for a laugh…

“I saw him walking in,” M explained while picking up his stuff. “He was here before. Two of my girls are still recovering from what he did to them,” her voice was dark. Q realized she cared for those women, and wondered how serious were their injuries. “I figured that if anyone was running, he was responsible, and you look much more likable than he is. There is absolutely nowhere in this room to hide,” she turned around and he followed her gaze - no space under the bed, open space under the table, full closet. “And you have the body of a woman.”

“I do not!” Q replied offendedly. M gave him a doubting look.

“You should go,” she said. “Run through the front before he checks all the rooms.”

She handed him his things and he wanted to put on his trousers before she stopped him with a palm on his hands.

“There is no time.”

He gaped at her. “I’m not running through the town like this!”

M’s eyes grew deadly. “Well you’re bloody well not staying here.”

Realizing that he really had no time to think of another way or even get out of the corset, which in retrospective was a horrible idea to put on, he angrily turned on his (currently bare) feet and opened the door. He made a step outside, another one, turned to the staircase, and was violently slammed against the wall.

The breath was knocked out of him as a broad-shouldered body came seemingly out of nowhere, and one glance showed Silva filling Q’s vision, triumph heating his cold gaze like hellfire warming a corpse.  “Maybe I was wrong to say that every bitch is like the rest,” he cooed thoughtfully as he pressed his weight closer, the forearm across Q’s throat precluding speech - nearly cutting off air entirely.  Before any further reaction could be considered, however, Silva twisted his grip, a massive hand closing around Q’s neck and another around his bare upper arm.  The dark-haired young man was tossed as if he were a doll - skirts and all - as if he weighed nothing, crashing into the nearest room.

He gasped when his air pipe was finally free from pressure, but his trouble was far from over. He heard the door shut and he heard M shouting and banging against it, but when he turned, he saw Silva has just finished locking it.

His heart fell into his guts. 

“You’re quite a clever boy, really,” Silva murmured, considering the door for a moment, and considering the frenzied pounding - and now threatening shrieking - on the other side with something like amusement.  Then the pale-haired man turned his countenance to where Q was sprawled on the floor, and it was like having a greased hand land on his skin, possessive and cringe-worthy.  The smile Silva was wearing didn’t help, even before the killer kept talking, “I admit, I didn’t think twice until I got to the last room and realized that there was no boy up here at all, at least not the one I was looking for.  I must say-”  Silva’s eyes lingered, then slid lower, from Q’s bare throat and upper chest - the tightness of the corset creating a hint of slight, girlish cleavage - down the slimming blue bodice to the full skirts .   The skirts were awry from the fall, and Q realized the impracticality of skirts - they rode up much easier than trousers would. He briefly considered pulling them lower and hiding his thighs, but it seemed like a small problem compared to the physical threat Silva posed.  The looming man finished his sentence, making that threat clearer by the second, “-This is far better than what I was expecting.”

Without any more warning than that, Silva moved, and at that moment it was easy to see the man who’d fought alongside James, because Silva was fast as hell, just like Bond was - and powerful.   Q barely had time to yelp in shock  before Silva crashed down on him like a mountain, catching his wrists as easily as an idle child would scoop pebbles off a beach, but then crushing them in his fists as he forced them up by Q’s head.  Silva’s grin was growing wider and wilder, and the mad pits of his eyes seemed intent on devouring everything they gazed upon - especially  as Q’s shock transformed into fear.   “What?” Silva asked, mock-wounded  as the young man struggled beneath him,  “You don’t like the results of your change in attire?  Or did you think that you could dress like a whore and not be treated like one.”  Silva leaned down to force his face up close to Q’s neck, intimate and close as he exhaled a damp breath.  

Q’s body went into a strong shudder and for a second he blanked out everything but the feeling of deep disgust as he felt the air move around the sensitive skin of his neck, heard Silva breathing him in as if he were food. He could not reach the knife still stuck in his corset from this position and his legs and hands were effectively pinned under Silva’s limbs, so he tried to struggle with every part of his being, but even that was completely useless - Silva’s body was dead weight on him, making him almost completely immobile.  As if noticing the exact moment when Q realized his own helplessness, Silva chuckled, the sound cascading across Q’s throat and vibrating through his skin.  “Come now, clever boy,” Silva said patronizingly, pressing a kiss so hard against the corner of Q’s jaw that it forced his head to the side, “Didn’t you at least think about something like this, as that old woman laced you up into this dress - wrapped you up like a present?”  Silva drew his head back before  Q could find the right angle to bite him,  but kept firm weight on Q’s wrists even as he let the rest of his body settle more heavily on Q’s torso, a smothering weight from thighs to chest. Q’s horror deepened even further when he felt the press of Silva’s erection against him, and he realized that his fears were confirmed - Silva wouldn’t just beat him up, wouldn’t just kill him. He would rape him first, and that somehow made it all so much worse.

And the bastard would probably never stop talking while he did it either. 

“Surely you had a moment - even just a second-” Silva coaxed, as if Q were simply a student who was slow to learn a new lesson, or a dog slow to pick up a new trick, “-where you thought about the other women in this house, dressed as you are now, earning a living on their backs.  You’re gorgeous enough to earn quite a pretty penny, although I imagine some customers will be a bit surprised to find what you’ve got hidden up your skirts.”  As he smirked, Silva shifted his weight, the hard outline of his cock pressing against the clothing between them and dragging across Q’s groin.

Q tried to get away from the pressure, but was absolutely unable to even shift. Instead, he snarled into Silva’s face.

“I was thinking about you hunting me, you bastard,” he hissed. “And that was not sexual in the slightest!”

Silva laughed right back.  “Ahhh, but isn’t this all about the hunt?” he crowed, eyes alight, smile getting more dangerous and delighted the more Q struggled.  Despite Q’s wriggling, the larger man managed to get both of Q’s wrists transferred into the grip of one fist, dragging them above Q’s head and stroking down the underside of one bare arm as he went on, “The strong hunt and prey upon the weak, but there’s no shame in being the prey, my dear boy.”  The hand moved from Q’s arm, to his collarbones, to the hollow of his throat where his pulse raced, and finally tracing down to where the corset squeezed Q’s chest up into false little breasts.  The noise Silva made was animal, and Q felt goosebumps rise all over his body. He didn’t even know what he wanted less - being taken quickly and with force, hurting all the way through… or, and that made him want to throw up - if Silva took his time, if he made his body respond. Q didn’t think he could live with himself if that happened. Maybe it was a good thing he wouldn't have to live with himself for long afterwards.

Because Silva was definitely going to kill him.  

“I hope that James, wherever the hell he is, can wait a bit,” Silva said with something ugly and gloating sliding across his face.  He shifted his weight, and stopped playing with the upper rim of Q’s corseted bodice to instead reach down for a fist-full of the skirts between them.  “-Because I think I want to stay and enjoy this.  I want to be able to tell James how his little bitch  _ howled _ when I-”

Q’s hands finally wriggled loose, now that Silva’s grip wasn’t so bulletproof, and his left hand slipped through his fingers. The next words from Silva’s mouth got muffled when his jaw was hit with Q’s fist, but unfortunately as Q was right handed, his aim and strength were both off. Nonetheless, he didn’t lose a second, already drawing his hand back to strike again by the time Silva got his hand in the way.  It was a brief struggle, although by the time Silva had both of Q’s wrists pinned again, the larger man looked frazzled, snarling - apparently his sick fantasies only worked until the victim fought back.  “I might have gone slow, made you like it,” Silva puffed, chest brushing Q’s as he leaned in to put them nose to nose and growl, “but now I’m going to wreck you as thoroughly as I wrecked James’s last toy.”

That made Q furious for so many reasons. Silva was a monster. Q wasn’t the first person

who had to bear that knowledge, wasn’t the first to have to breathe in his sick breath, wasn’t the first to be pinned down and desperate, unable to struggle… and he probably wouldn’t be the last one either if this  was how Q end ed and James  was out there somewhere with a fever and serious injuries. James, who fought Silva so bravely. James, who lost someone the same way he  would lose Q now… even if, and it made Q’s heart hurt, even if he wouldn’t miss him anywhere as much. James, who  was so beautiful in the morning light, who wanted to live a normal life but Silva took it from him. And a small part of him was angry because this was the end and he would never get to make James Bond love him, and he would never mean more to him than Vesper, and he realized that he wanted to desperately.

He launched, his head the only part of him that was able of some movement, and the next thing he knew his mouth was full of blood and Silva’s cheek was bleeding when his teeth bore into it.  Silva reared back with a roar, and either pain or shock made his grip on Q loosen, even if the larger man was still straddling his waist. Q freed his hands again and this time he had more leverage. His punches were quick and numerous, if not as strong as Bond or Silva would deliver, and in no time Silva’s nose was bleeding and the man was starting to realize that Q wasn’t exactly a passive target. Unfortunately, Silva still had the upper hand, and after weathering a few blows from Q’s quick fists, Silva recovered and returned a few punches of his own.   Soon Q was forced to pull his arms in to block punches to his face, and to curl up as much as he could when  Silva switched easily to body-blows.  The man was a machine, swift and vicious - and on top of it all,  _ furious _ .  The words coming out of his gritted teeth didn’t even sound like English anymore, and  Q realized that he would very likely die this way.  

Until the pounding on the door - which had actually ceased for a while, surprisingly - started up again for just a second, and then there was a massive crashing and splintering noise.  Silva stopped punching, starting to turn, but then he was hit by something big enough and forceful enough to topple him right off Q.  

Q took a few moments to breathe and recover from the punches which still vibrated pain throughout his whole upper body, and then he sat up to see what was going on. The sight shocked him to the bone and almost made him cry with relief.  Bond, instead of being asleep miles away as morning came, was right there, having apparently broken down the door to get in.  Despite how painful that alone must have been, what with his injuries, the blue-eyed gunman was now giving Silva hell, as the two fought for the upper-hand.   The relief at seeing Bond faded,  as it became clear just how vicious two ex-soldiers like this could be: they were like two fighting dogs in a pit, laying into one another with all the viciousness they had, blows landing hard enough that it was  almost like Q could feel them,  the heavy, smacking thud of them as they landed on flesh.  The knuckles of Bond's gloves were already bloodied, a match to his shirt, which he’d apparently put back on only to ruin further - Silva clearly had a tendency to go for fresh wounds, and the shallow bullet-wound on Bond’s chest was spreading red like a badge across his shirt.  Silva, on the other hand, wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests anytime soon, as blood of his own poured down from what looked like a broken nose.  James had gotten a lucky blow in.  Now, the two were on equal footing again, or perhaps a balance that left James disadvantaged as his element of surprise wore off and his injuries began to tell.  Teeth bared and red from the split lip he was already sporting, Bond was already starting to favor his right side.  Even as he hammered a left-handed punch into Silva’s ribs so hard that Q was sure he felt the vibration through the floor, Silva toppled him with a jerk of his body.  With a wet-sounding laugh, Silva regained his place on top, a position that was becoming horrifically familiar.  “How nice of you to join us,” Silva muttered, while James just snarled up at him, as defiant as the waves against a mountain, just a second before he cringed and cried out as Silva returned the favor of hammering a fist against James’s side.

In a panic, Q stood up, looking around himself, trying to find anything he could use as a weapon. He remembered the knife hiding in his corset, but the thought of using it made him sick. Nevertheless, he pulled it out, feeling it slicing into his skin, but fortunately he was too skinny to do any real damage to his chest. Instead of stabbing Silva - like he should have, he knew he should have - he hid the blade in his hand and grasped the second thing he thought of - a heavy chair standing by the window. He lifted it up, as high as the ceiling let him, and brought it down on Silva’s back.  

The reaction was actually rather gratifying: Silva didn’t lose consciousness (which would have been the best case scenario), but still all but collapsed onto James heavily enough that it probably winded both of them.  The cracking noise had to be coming from more than the chair, too, from the way Silva gasped and made a noise like he’d been the thing just about broken in half.   Q only had a few moments to savor his victory, however, dropping the remains of the chair,  before Silva turned out to be more resilient than expected.  Roaring like some monster right out of hell, Silva said something unintelligible but horrifyingly furious, and managed to get one more punch in - this one catching James across the jaw, stunning him.  

But instead of pressing his attack on James, Silva lurched to his feet, slewing around with wrathful eyes and bared teeth to look at Q, who stumbled back, realizing his mistake. Maybe the knife was a better idea after all… he twisted it in his hand, revealing the blade, ready to use it.  Just as he brought it to bear, he had two-hundred pounds of pure mass and muscle charging into him, slamming them both against the wall. He could feel the knife sinking into Silva’s body, but it made no difference to the man’s strength - he was struggling to breath under him.  The man was a monster - a demon - and just wouldn’t  _ die _ .  In fact, even with Q’s knife pressed in under his ribs, Silva just leaned forward until he could growl wetly in Q’s face, “You think you’re such a clever boy, but I’m going to-”

And suddenly, the words cut off.  A puff of a gasp hit Q’s face, but even that seemed lessened, as if all of Silva’s air had forgotten where to go.  And then James, whom everyone had presumed half-unconscious, leaned over Silva’s shoulder from where he now stood at his old nemesis’s back.  “You’ll do what, Silva?” he said, as gently as a caress, even as Q felt something brush his knife  _ inside Silva’s body _ .  There was a sickening wet noise as James withdrew, eyes like cold winter skies, and Silva managed to blink at Q in shock just once before his body fell away.  With Silva down, it revealed James - very much battered and the worse for wear, but holding one of his endless supply of knives, bathed in red all the way to the hilt in his fist.  

Time seemed to slow like molasses, but when Silva didn’t move except to choke one last time - blood escaping instead of air - and then go still, James dragged his eyes away from his old enemy to look at Q instead.  “I think I remember you making me promise to only kill if necessary,” he said in a bit of a rasp, voice low and roughened like sandpaper from all he’d been through.  He tipped his chin at the corpse between them.  “I think this counts as necessary.”

Q’s lungs released a stuttered breath. He was on the brim of collapsing, only shock holding him upright. He stared at the dead body at his feet, at his own knife sticking out of its side, and the only thought he could find in himself was the desperate wish for Silva to  _ be dead _ . Finally, he looked up at Bond and made a few short, quick nods he didn’t even intend to make. His body wasn’t listening to him.  

Fortunately, James’s body seemed a bit more responsive, although he limped a bit as he came forward.  He looked like he instantly regretted kneeling as he went down to check if Silva was well and truly dead, but when he stood up again - satisfied - the grimace of pain on his face only lasted until he’d stepped over to Q’s side.  Then, worry took over, blue eyes shifting to a color that contained warmth again.  “Are you alright, Q?”  

Q gave him an incredulous look. “You are bleeding from  _ multiple stab wounds _ , Bond. Of course…” he realized that the older man was not listening to a word he was saying.  Closing what little distance there was between them, Bond was checking him over now with intense focus as if he couldn’t hear a thing, big gloved hands sliding up Q’s arms (as if he literally had to be sure they were still connected to Q’s body), squeezing his shoulders affirmatively, his mouth turning down in a frown as he slid one hand down Q’s bare upper chest to the thin line of blood from Q’s own knife.  

“I’m alright, Bond,” Q said somewhat softly, touched by the attention Bond was giving him. “Come on, we need to get you patched up… and possibly out of the country. This will not go unnoticed.”

But Bond was listening possibly less than before, and made it quite impossible for Q to focus on conversation either as he splayed his hand across Q’s bare sternum - soft, worn leather against skin that wasn’t used to being so bare - and pushed Q back against the wall to seal their mouths together.  For all that the kiss was fierce and sudden, it remained surprisingly chaste, lips closed, and Q welcomed this sort of shock - it was so much more pleasant than the one that was making his limbs shake. He was very aware that they were both covered in blood and tired to the bone, not mentioning the dead body two feet away from them - but they were alive, blissfully, beautifully alive. Together. All Q’s fears from before, when he thought he’d never see Bond again, that he’ d die under the hands of a maniac, or that he  would find Bond dead upon arrival back at the pit, left him suddenly with the touch of Bond’s lips, and he felt dizzy.  

When Bond pulled back a moment later, his right hand didn’t leave its place, sealed against Q’s chest as if counting his breaths, although his other hand was wandering over Q’s corseted side.  “Are you sure you’re all right, Q?” Bond asked, calmer now but still low and sincere.  

Q shook his head at the other man. “You are incredible, James Bond,” he could only say. No, he wasn’t alright, but his wounds were not physical. For the most part. “Keep holding me and I just might be,” he then said very quietly.

Just as complicated emotions began moving across James’s expression, his mouth opening, footsteps came thundering up the stairs towards their door.  There was the unmistakable tone of M in there somewhere, but James still did his best to go on the defensive - it was a rather lackluster effort, though.  Both Q and Bond were exhausted, and it showed.  Therefore, it was probably for the best that the men who rushed in - M in their wake - were all outfitted obviously as the sheriff’s men.  Bond had stepped just far enough away from Q that it wasn’t apparent that the two of them had been snogging just seconds ago, but even if they had, the three lawmen clearly had enough to look at: they were staring in shock at the blood smeared in little patches everywhere, the body on the floor… Q in a dress.  It wasn’t clear whether they realized that Q was actually a man, although his hair was a somewhat shorter than the current style.  Almost ironically, James’s bloodied state was barely raising any eyebrows in comparison with everything else.  

After a good minute of staring slack-jawed, however, one of the three newcomers managed to collect himself, clearing his throat and straightening his spine.  “You two-” he pointed at Q and Bond, purposefully avoiding gender pronouns and looking at Q like he didn't know what to do with him… her… “Are coming with us.  I don’t know what the hell happened, but while we try to figure it out, you both can cool your heels in a nice cell.  Come on - don’t give us any trouble.”

Behind the three lawmen, M caught Q’s eye and mouthed, “It’ll be alright.”  

Perhaps James caught M’s reassuring words as well, or else he was finally just too tuckered out to fight anymore, because there was no further argument as James and Q were ushered out.


	9. Inside A Dark Cell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally added two chapters at once and Truth liked the idea of giving you guys more to salivate over, so here you go :)

The cell was pretty decent, so far as cells went; James had been in far worse.  The little cot they were on actually sported a straw-stuffed mattress, and was big enough that he and Q were sitting on it comfortably enough, side by side.  The silence was awkward, but that was probably to be expected.  After all, they’d just survived a fight to the death and were possibly going to be charged with murder now, unless everyone believed that killing Silva had been a matter of self-defense.  So far, no one seemed to know what to do with either of them, besides patching them up a bit and leaving them alone behind bars.  

To be honest, James wasn’t sure what anyone was supposed to do with them either.  They’d disarmed James of enough weaponry to start a small revolution, and Q…

Well, Q was still in a dress.  

That was probably the present source of the awkward silence, but no one had been thinking ahead to ask for Q’s preferred clothes as they’d been whisked away.  Although, if James were being honest with himself, he was rather partial to the blue dress.  He liked men and women equally, and anything that showed off that much collarbone and creamy skin was a good choice, in his opinion.  He tried not to stare too openly, but kept shooting glances to his right, having an even harder time dragging his eyes away when he saw the blush creep down Q’s cheeks and neck to bring a faint flush to his chest, too.  

Clearing his throat and suddenly desperate to break the stale silence before it started eating him whole, James reached down into his boot, where no one had been smart enough to look for weapons.  His newly-bandaged wounds and blossoming bruises protested the movement, but he grunted and pushed through it, and straightened again to open his hand under Q’s suspiciously curious eyes.   Bond hadn’t managed to keep most of his own prized knives from being confiscated, but now he produced Q’s little knife, cleaned of blood.  “Here,” James said, feeling unaccountably tongue-tied, but managing stiffly, “Let it never be said that I don’t take care of the important things.”  

Q looked at the knife, then at him, his eyes surprised.

“How did you manage that?” he asked with a little frown creasing his brows adorably. “And why? Why didn’t you keep one of yours instead?”

The second was a question that Bond suddenly didn’t quite know the answer to either, and for a moment, he just stared at the little weapon weighing down his palm.  Finally he managed, with a shrug, “I’m always replacing mine anyway.  But I imagine that something of yours-”  Bond stopped, then looked up with narrowed eyes as he realized, “This knife isn’t even yours to begin with, is it?”

Q’s mouth formed into a small smile. He reached for the knife, and as he took it, his fingers rested in Bond’s palm for longer than necessary, warming it. “It is now,” he said. Then he looked at himself, taking in his current attire. “But I’m afraid I don’t really have much space to put it into.”

That broke the tension, and Bond chuckled, although at the same time he let his eyes follow Q’s and linger.  The old doctor who’d taken the time to patch Bond up a bit hadn’t really known what to do with Q, and perhaps assuming that it really was a young lady in that dress, had left the cut on Q’s chest alone except for handing Q a wet cloth to wipe away the crusted blood with.  It was a shallow wound, and already scabbed over, but James couldn’t help but trace the line of it down past Q’s fabricated cleavage.  “I suppose you do fill that corset rather well,” he joked before he could think better of it, his smile having perhaps a bit of a leer to it, “without sharing space with a knife.”  

When Bond looked up, he found Q raising his eyebrows at him with a small smirk curling the corners of his mouth. “Do you like it, Mr. Bond?” he asked in a voice Bond could only call coquettish.

Taking a risk and sliding closer, until Bond’s hip was pressed up against Q’s, ruffled skirts not enough to hide body-heat, Bond replied smoothly, “Very much.  Although I’m rather at a loss as for how you came to be in such a fetching dress.”  He stretched out a hand, giving Q every chance to pull away, and let it settled on the younger man’s back.  James still had his gloves on (a habit, for a gunslinger), but he still felt a little rush at the rigid texture of the corset’s lacings through the dress beneath his palm.

“Well…” Q leaned into his hand and one of his legs, the one closer to Bond, lifted up, causing the skirt to slide off, revealing even more skin, and landed over Bond’s leg. His thigh pressed against Bond’s thigh, warming it up. “... at the time it seemed like the best disguise and I hoped Silva would overlook me as one of the girls. And to be honest, I wasn’t a fan of it. But now that I have a different audience… I am starting to appreciate it more and more.”

Grinning in approval, Bond couldn’t help but comment, “This is quite a change from the shy boy I’ve been keeping company with thus far.  Is putting you in a dress really all it took to make you relax?”  

“A bit of that,” Q purred and tilted his head to the side, his eyes openly admiring Bond’s form. “A bit of other factors… but if I were you, I’d use me…” he looked up into Bond's eyes. “... while it lasts.”

“You minx,” Bond accused, suddenly fighting the urge to laugh even as his eyes danced to the door, reminding himself that it was closed, that they’d been left alone because no one knew what to do with them.  He looked back to Q and knew the wicked delight that was glinting in his own eyes, finishing, “All this time I thought you were sitting here being nervous.”  Pressing his hand to Q’s collarbones again, he gave a bold push, forcing Q down onto the cot and leaning over him.  “If I’d known you were going to say something like that, I could have saved us a lot of time.”

As Q’s back hit the cot, a sigh escaped his lips. His leg was now completely pinned between Bond’s body and thigh; he tried to wiggle it, quickly realising there would be no escaping. That seemed to shorten his breath in the best way - his pupils were blown wide and focused on Bond’s face.

“You’ve never seemed like a man who waits for permission,” he said breathily.

“Well, you’ve only known me for a few days,” Bond teased, but then obliged to lean down and steal a kiss - but just for a second.   When Q pushed back against his mouth, James withdrew like the bastard he was, keeping tauntingly out of reach.  At Q’s whine of annoyance , James grinned shamelessly wider, gathering up Q’s wrists in his hands and pressing them down before ducking his head and pressing a kiss that was more tongue and teeth than lips against the left side of Q’s gloriously pale collarbone. Q’s whines grew louder at that, the hands in Bond’s grip tensed, and Q’s whole body pressed up against him. Transferring Q’s hands to one of his own, Bond slid his free hand over the contours of the dress until he could reach between their bodies and then could feel the hard outline of Q’s length trapped between his thighs and the dress.  The sensation made Bond groan despite himself, mouthing over to the hollow of Q’s throat, then lower to the naked line of his sternum, to the inviting rise of flesh created by the corset’s tight constriction.  “God, Q,” Bond breathed, even as his senses warred for a moment, feeling the curvature of breasts but also the shape of a hard cock, “I’m not sure I dare ask what you’re wearing  _under_ this.”

Q grinned widely, bringing his head up and, brushing his lips against Bond’s ear, whispered: “Nothing at all.”

“You’re going to ruin me,” the blue-eyed gunman declared huskily, briefly nuzzling at Q’s cheek with a stubbled jaw before returning to Q’s breast with intent this time.  Mindful of the cut, he breathed hot air upon it in a sigh - like a dragon upon its hoard - before turning his head and scraping his teeth across the mound of tempting flesh pushed up by the corset.  As Q hummed contently and arched into his mouth , Bond grinned proudly, then sealed his lips and sucked hard.

“Bond…” Q whimpered in a broken voice. His hands were struggling again, but Bond didn’t relent. Q was getting more and more desperate to touch or get touched, and he wanted to know how hard he could push before Q crumbled.  Releasing one of Q’s hands, Bond reached his other hand down, finding a knee beneath the pile of skirts and gripping it like a lifeline as he scraped his rough jaw against the love-mark he’d just made, relishing the noises Q made. Q’s free hand immediately found his hair, then hugged his shoulders and back, but didn’t stay there long either - it snaked to Bond’s front and down his chest, but before it could reach the destination Bond thought it was going for, Q’s fingers splayed over his stomach, digging into his abs, and then over to his sides.

Bond leaned into the touch when he could, making a throaty noise of approval before unlatching his mouth to murmur huskily, “I like what this dress does to you.”  He kissed the new curvature of Q’s chest, where another rose-red bruise had been sucked to the surface of pale skin.  “The fact that it’s made you terribly handsy isn’t bad either.”

Q’s hand moved south until he found the bulge in Bond’s trousers, and he squeezed it lightly, much to Bond’s pleased surprise.

“You really don’t know me if you think this is all just the dress,” he grinned. “But I promise you… when I’m naked, I’m just as hungry for you.”  

“You little monster,” James growled with all affection, rocking briefly into Q’s hand and then stopped teasing to slide his hand down to Q’s ankle, so that he could slide his grip up the younger man’s bare leg.  At the last second, as he began to breach the edges of Q’s new skirts, James recalled the position he’d found Q in just hours ago - it doused his emotions temporarily, like icy water.  Q, on his back like now, but Silva looming over him with intentions not all that far off from Bond’s…  James lifted his head, catching Q’s eyes, because he had to know, “This all right, Q?”

Q’s expression turned to confused very quickly. The hand on Bond’s cock stilled and withdrew. “What? Why shouldn’t it be?”

Confusion was better than fear, and it relaxed some of the tension that had crawled into James’s shoulder.  He leaned up, catching Q’s lips in a kiss sweeter than the previous ones.  “No reason,” he lied gently, glad to let the subject drop and finally pushing his hand up under Q’s skirt until he was feeling Q’s thigh quivering under his fingers and palm.  Nipping at Q’s lower lip to show that everything really was all right, James pressed closer, still caging Q’s wrist in one hand while the other discovered that Q was, indeed, wearing nothing.  Just as Q gasped under him when his gloved fingers encircled the hard length, the sound of metal and wood moving cut into their reality.

Bill Tanner opened the door and walked in.

The instant they looked to the side and saw him, Q stilled completely under Bond’s body. Bond looked down on him and saw he had the look of a cornered rabbit in his huge eyes. Next thing he knew, Q was pushing him away and this time, Bond let him, slipping his hand out from under Q’s skirts. They sat up hastily, still a bit tangled .

Bill Tanner, the most improbable person to ever walk in on them, just crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorway.

“Hi Q,” he said. “Bond.”

Q blushed furiously. “Hi Bill,” he said, probably out of habit.

Because two could play that game, Bond impudently folded his arms, too, meeting Bill’s gaze with his best cat-that-got-the-canary grin.  And, if Q was his canary… he’s definitely gotten him.  “Hello,” he replied in a voice that he purposefully kept husky for effect.  

That caused Bill to sober up. He stood up straight, unfolded his arms, and coughed nervously.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, casting his eyes to the floor.

“Are you sure?” Bond asked back lazily, shifting his weight consideringly under Q’s leg, still draped over his thigh , “Because we could keep go-”

He was interrupted by Q slapping his shoulder - the one without a bullet wound, thankfully.

“Let go of me, Bond, or so help me…” he pulled his leg from over the older man's thigh and leaned back on the cot. “What are you doing here, Bill?” he asked. “Did you get yourself arrested again?”

Bill looked up at them. “No, actually. I came to get you two out. Tables turned.”

Bond became more alert at that, and ceased playing around - arousal fading to the far back of his mind - to instead get up and approach the front of the cell.  “What do you mean?” he demanded, low, all business again… and tentative hope.

Bill smiled at him. “You two are heroes. You killed one of the most feared criminals of our times. Well, he would be feared if anyone knew who he was. But we got his men to confess to all their crimes and tell us horror stories about their boss. To be honest, knowing what he did, even his corpse is haunting me,” he looked truly uncomfortable.

Looking back, Bond caught Q’s eyes, seeing the same kind of hope and confusion he felt.

“Why don’t you come with me to the sheriff’s office? I’ll explain everything,” Bill flicked his head towards the door. “Oh, and Q? Is there a reason why you’re barefoot and in a dress?”

Q stood up and joined Bond.

“Why does everyone keep focusing on that?”

~^~

Bill found him a shirt and some old trousers in an old box of clothing Q hoped wasn’t full of leftovers from previous prisoners, mostly because that would mean they were already dead. He couldn’t be very picky though if he wanted to be taken seriously in front of the sheriff and his men. Bond, for his part, looked as though he’d take Q equally seriously whether he was wearing trousers, a dress, or nothing at all - although he had the decency to turn around and give Q the semblance of privacy when he changed.  Of course, Q had to glare bloody murder at him first.  Still smiling that insufferably handsome smile, James had shrugged, folded his arms (right arm moving stiffly because of his injuries), and turned his back to Q.  The ease with which Bond obeyed was suspicious, so it was hardly surprising when James drawled without turning, “You’ll never get out of that corset on your own.”

Q realized he was right, not to mention he couldn't even reach all the buttons on the dress itself on his own. He looked at Bill, who just shrugged and folded his arms, clearly showing he wouldn’t let himself be dragged into it, so Q sighed, cursing himself for being so bloody stupid, and braced himself for the smugness he knew Bond was capable of.

“Bond, could you please help me with these buttons and unlace the corset?” he asked.

The gunman turned, affecting a look of delighted surprise, as if someone had just dropped money at his feet.  “Are you sure you want my help?” he asked, affecting a shocked tone to go with the face.  Bill was starting to snicker behind his hand.  “I mean, just look at that dress - do you really want me with my dirty paws on it-?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bond, shut up and be glad I let you anywhere near me,” Q snapped, running out of patience.  With a low, dirty chuckle that had Q remembering their earlier compromising positions, James gave in and turned, striding up behind Q confidently.  

“You’re lucky I have lots of practice getting pretty young things out of these kinds of things,” Bond murmured teasingly as his capable hands began slowly releasing buttons over the corset, and then the corset laces themselves in little jerks and pulls. Q’s breath left him when one of the pulls made him almost collapse into Bond, his back briefly pressing against Bond’s chest.

“Keep it civil, Bond,” he whispered.

“I thought I was keeping it civil,” the gunman leaned over Q’s shoulder enough so that his faux-innocent words were like a warm touch against Q’s ear.  

“Just keep unlacing,” Q hissed.  

“Should I ask Bill if he likes the view?”  

“I should’ve let you bleed out,” Q tried to act tough while his heart skipped a beat in terror and his face caught on fire.  Fortunately, Q’s blush seemed to appease the gunman, who returned to his task with just as much skill as promised - and probably only half the mischief he’d threatened.  

~^~

The sheriff’s office was right next door. It was nicer and bigger than the one the had in Tombstone, which was understandable, considering the sizes of the two towns. The sheriff was a younger version of Boothroyd, about forty years old, blond, and with a German accent, so he must have been new. What was shocking, though, was the presence of Gareth Mallory standing in the corner, with his usual arrogant air about him, and that across from the sheriff at the table sat Boothroyd himself.

Q’s heart stopped for a second and then restarted again, double speed. Strange fear filled him to the brim - there were so many things Boothroyd didn’t agree with that he had done, things the old man couldn’t have known about but would be appalled by if he ever did find out. But the things he did know about would be just enough to make him furious with Q, namely helping a prisoner and a fugitive escape his prison, and killing a man. Q looked at Bill. Two prisoners.

He was fucked.

“Gentlemen, sit down,” the sheriff was wary but not unpleasant. He pointed at two chairs across from him, next to Boothroyd. Boothroyd looked up and their eyes locked.

“Q!” he stood up, the chair’s legs scraping against the wooden floor. Q’s heart went up into his throat.

“Father,” he greeted. Boothroyd didn’t look like he wanted to throttle him - so far. That was a good sign.

It seemed like Boothroyd was conflicted about what to do. If Q didn’t know better, he would say the old man would hug him, but Boothroyd wasn’t the hugging type. He was swaying on his toes, looking Q over with a mixture of expressions on his face - Q could see worry and happiness, but also a scowl that looked as if it were permanently carved into his features.

Then he looked at Bond, and his face lost all traces of warmth, but in a way that didn’t make it as hostile as a few days before. “Bond,” he nodded his way.  

Standing a pace behind Q, Bond’s expression was shuttered, but only enough to make him unreadable - not threatening.   It probably meant something that Q could now read subtle differences like that in the man.   Still sporting visible bruises but somehow managing to radiate a natural, masculine sort of strength despite that, the blond-haired man inclined his head and replied in turn, “Sheriff.”  Then, perhaps with a glint of humor, he looked past Q’s father to the man behind the desk to repeat, “Sheriff.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” the Bisbee sheriff said. “Just sit down finally, you can do this later.”

They complied. Q sat next to Boothroyd, still feeling slightly dizzy, Bond next to him, and Bill Tanner took a seat next to the Bisbee sheriff. Q could now focus on Mallory. He was a known figure around Tombstone, one of the richest men Q knew, and Q dealt with him frequently back in the shop. He wasn’t the warmest of men, but Q respected him, and it was strange seeing him here, in the same room with a man who went to prison for stealing from him - Bill. Q wondered what those two men had to do with it.

“I’ll let mister… Mallory?” the sheriff looked behind him at Mallory and then at Bill, “... or Tanner explain?”

Mallory looked at them all and then nodded to Tanner. Bill smiled at them and started to explain.

“While I was in prison, Mr. Mallory was so generous that he offered my wife, Eve, a job. After I came back home from prison, for which I thank you two,” after this, there was an awkward second of silence. Q tried not to look at Boothroyd. “... I started secretly living in her room at Mr. Mallory’s house,” he looked behind himself at Mallory. “Sorry again.”

Mallory just waved his hand at him to continue.

“Yesterday evening a group of seven armed men broke into the house and tried to kill everyone in it. With the help of several men working around the house, we overpowered them and sent them to jail. There they very quickly turned on their leader and told us everything. It turns out that Raoul Silva had a very cunning plan of killing the whole house and sending a letter to Sierra Vista that would explain the loss of a train full of silver as a theft made by Mr. Mallory.” Bill was speaking calmly, very much like a secretary and not an ex-con. “The letter would explain that the men couldn’t live with the guilt of killing a village full of people, which was apparently something they couldn’t avoid when several of the village men saw them stealing the train, and they had to kill everyone involved - even Mr. Mallory. Basically, Silva sent his men to stage a set of events that never happened so everyone would think it was Mallory and not him who committed the crime. After the men were interrogated, we immediately came here to arrest Silva. We understand now that you are the two men who, according to the men in our jail, killed twenty more of his gangsters,” he raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. “Silva’s plan was quite different in the beginning. He wanted to kill the whole of Tombstone and stage a war between us and Fairbank which never existed. Your involvement probably saved us all. And then you killed Silva.”

Q stared at him with awe. Bill was telling them how they saved a town, but he himself was the one that saved them. Suddenly they were heroes, even though ten minutes earlier they thought they would be sanctioned as cold blooded murderers.  Bond himself looked quite shocked, which was saying something for a man who seemed rather good at hiding emotions when it suited him.  Presently, both of James’s brows had winged upwards towards his hairline, and he glanced over at Q as if needing confirmation that this was really happening.

But before Q could say anything, the Bisbee sheriff entered the conversation.

“And as much as we appreciate that,” he said, referring to Bill’s last words. “We would love to hear how the hell you managed that.”

Again, there were Bond’s eyes flicking over to Q’s, the skin around them tightening for a second in the barest show of question and maybe unease.  James thus far didn’t have a very good track-record with government officials - but when he looked back at the Bisbee sheriff, James gamely put on his best smile, full of relaxed charm and totally false harmlessness.  “A gang the size that Silva kept isn’t exactly invisible, if you know to look for it,” he explained, and Q could tell he was picking his words carefully, avoiding incriminating or too-intimate landmines, such as: ‘  _Silva actually asked me to join his gang, then killed someone close to me when I said no_.’  

Of course, the sheriff had to ask, “And how did you know what to look for?”

“I knew Silva from the war,” James shrugged, then added before anyone could get ideas, “You meet  _a lot of people_ in a war.”  The topic of  _how_ well James had known Silva remained undiscussed, and a wintry edge to the blueness of James’s eyes said that he’d like to keep it that way.

“That doesn’t answer how the hell you managed to kill twenty gunmen,” the sheriff was very insistent. Q noticed that his father didn’t say anything, didn’t even intervene when Bond avoided the truth he already told him once.

“I did it,” Q said before Bond had any chance to answer. The whole room’s eyes snapped to him - looking at his scrawny form, it was hard to believe that he would be the one responsible, mostly due to being in the company of someone like Bond.  Q looked at Bond - the gunman himself was opening his mouth to comment, but Q didn’t let him take the blame. “We worked together, but I was the one who shot most of them. We didn’t have any time to alert you, and… we had no proof. In a similar situation, the sheriff does nothing without proof,” he looked at his father, feeling sorry that he had to say it like that. “Even when it's his own son asking. But he did right, he obeyed the law. His actions would have been right if Bond was lying. But he wasn’t.”

Boothroyd was frowning deeply, but he nodded the smallest of nods in Q’s direction before looking away.  Bond looked surprisingly pleased at the simple fact that Q was defending him, which perhaps said something for how often people called the gunman a liar.  

The rest of the meeting was uneventful. Q explained what happened during their “hunt” up to the point when the sheriff found them next to Silva’s dead body, turning a very bright shade of red when he had to explain his change of clothing (and he completely omitted the part of the story where he got almost raped), and they were surprisingly quickly cleared of all charges and released. For Q, that meant he could go back to Tombstone and restart his life. For Bond, however… it didn’t seem that simple.  

“I can’t just stay, Q,” Bond said, as they stood outside of the sheriff’s office in Bisbee, the setting sun turning Bond’s hair a reddish blond like blood on a gold coin.  It was a tiny reminder of all the gunman had survived, even as James checked his recently-returned weapons and looked about him, uncomfortable.  He didn’t meet Q’s eyes.  Although he did manage to quirk up one side of his mouth in a jaded half-smile.  “For starters, I’m pretty sure your father still has half a mind to throw me in jail, and if he knew…”  Bond  _did_ look at Q then, sliding his eyes suggestively up and down Q’s frame from head to toe, lingering on everything in between.  He was smart enough not to mention what had gone on between them explicitly, not while they were out in the open, but went on instead, “...Then I’m pretty sure he’d shoot me outright.”

The suggestive look, however, missed the mark entirely with the young men, who blanked out as he realized what Bond was saying. He immediately wanted to tell him why he should stay, that they could go home together and live happily ever after, that Bond’s past didn't matter, that their future was bright. But his rational part brought him quickly to Earth, scolding him for being an idiot. Bond was a fugitive. Q was the sheriff's son. They had absolutely no future together. And anyway, Bond would never want the kind of life Q wanted for them, and he would never want that life with Q. They only spent, what, three days together? And Q was already balls deep in romantic feelings with a man who clearly just wanted to pass the time with sex. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Bond wasn't the weird one here.

“Yeah,” he looked at his feet in something like a nod. “It's probably for the best if you leave.”

Something in James’s face seemed to age, the lines around his eyes deepening.  Usually, that would have followed a smile, but now it looked like Q’s words had punched something out of him.  “Q-” he started, then stopped in frustration.  He reached a hand forward, finding Q’s shirt-collar and fingering it; his hand clenched briefly as if he wanted to do more, but ultimately, he let go and stepped back.  Instead of whatever he’d been about to say, he cracked a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and commented, “Any chance I could convince you to join the outlaw life?  I’m sure we could find a horse that actually likes you, and I’ll miss your particular flair with a shotgun.”

Q looked up and couldn't hide the flash of hope in his eyes, but it was short lived. That was no life for him and Bond knew it. So he faked a smile as well and said: “All horses like me. I don't like them, that's the problem. I think I and my shotgun will stay on the side of the law.”

“Probably for the best,” Bond replied, but didn’t seem to mean it.  His eyes slipped past Q to warily eye the building they’d exited, where not one but two sheriffs were still talking over details with Tanner and Mallory.  “Well…”  Clenching his jaw briefly, then giving in with a sigh, Bond finished, “I’d better get going before one or  _both_ sheriffs decide that one good deed isn’t enough to keep me out of jail for all of my other bad decisions.  I think I have time for one more bad decision, though…”  

With no more warning than that - but perhaps a quick glance around and the start of an impish grin that should have been warning enough - James reached forward again, and this time when he caught Q’s collar, he dragged him in close enough to seal their mouths together for a quick, searing kiss.  

Before Q could do anything, they were apart again, and Bond was walking away. Q watched as he limped through the street, and his head and stomach were both having to deal with a confusing amount of emotions. The strongest ones hurt.

There was a part of him that was afraid to leave Bond in his current medical condition, and for a second he thought that would be enough of an excuse to run to catch him, but the mere thought of it was ridiculous. So he just stood there and watched him leave his life, wondering if he' d ever feel the way he did with him, with someone else.


	10. The Outlaw's Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are nearing the end of the story.
> 
> Only an Epilogue to come and we are done with this one. The epilogue will be shorter than any other chapter we wrote so far for this story, but this chapter is double the length of all the others, so we hope you excuse us.
> 
> Dora's note:
> 
> I don't know if you've heard of Patreon, but I created a page some time ago to help me with my bills since I moved to London and am attempting a freelance career in writing. Which, as you might know, doesn't pay well. If you felt generous, maybe you'd like to visit? One dollar a month would help me, no kidding.  
> And if you pledge more, you will get a look at the things I write outside of fanfiction, like TV shows, films, and currently a BDSM play. The more money I get from writing, the less time I have to spend on side jobs and the more time I spend on writing... you know the drill.
> 
> https://www.patreon.com/writeyourheartout

It took Q two weeks to restore his life back in Tombstone. After he brought all his guns back from the sheriff’s office and arranged them on the shelves in neat rows, together with ammunition, holsters and other accessories, it took a while for his usual business to get back to normal. People treated him differently - apparently someone - definitely neither Eve nor Bill Tanner - told the whole town that he was some kind of a hero, and those who weren’t afraid of him, were fascinated by him. He had people coming in at all hours of the day trying to make him tell stories, children were running to him from all directions every time he stepped out of the shop, and what was worst, women suddenly treated him like the most desirable man alive. No more was his status of a confirmed bachelor overlooked. And Q’s head was on the brink of exploding every time it came up.

His father stopped asking him when he'll marry someone a long time ago. Q suspected it was his form of self preservation. Eve and Bill were good friends who weren’t about to stone him just for the things he liked to do in bed, and with whom. Bill proved that many times. But the strangers, the people Q knew his whole life and still didn’t know anything about, just like they knew nothing about him, his neighbours, customers, alleged friends - they were expecting him to marry, and if not marry, then at least visit the local saloon. And Q was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hold them off for much longer.

Somehow, Q’s easy life  had become extremely complicated when a certain outlaw  had entered it.

So it took a few weeks to restore his life after the business was done. His father changed the tone of speech he used to talk to him in. Q quickly realized that the absence of barking was a sign of respect, and that thought had him incredibly pleased. Finally he was treated like the adult he was, not a five year old who screw ed up everything he touche d . He started to visit his father more often.

Bill joined Eve at Mallory’s house where he helped out as Mallory’s right hand while Eve stopped working as a maid and became a secretary. They came by every week with hot food, Eve often insisted on doing Q’s laundry, and Bill took him drinking. And Q faked his laughter and thanked them and insisted that he  was not their personal hero, and then went home to sleep. In the morning, he pretended to himself it wasn’t difficult to get up and go downstairs to his shop, even though the days he was closed he didn’t leave his bed.

He supposed Bill knew what he was going through. He must have had days when all he could see were the corpses of people he killed in the war. The problem Q was facing was that he wasn’t really that crushed about the people he killed. As horrible as that sounded, he simply wasn’t having nightmares, didn’t see blood on his hands, wasn’t feeling guilty. The men he killed were animals that killed anyone they wanted. No, he was alright with that weight on his shoulders. What really haunted him weren’t the dead, it was the one who got away alive.

After his shop was open and before his usual flow of customers started showing up, Q had some time to think about the events of the three days he spent with Bond. He started seeing it in a completely new light as time and new information showed him the whole picture, and after the whole town started treating him as a hero, he realized that he wasn't the only one who should be treated that way. He started writing letters to big cities all around, to sheriffs, to newspapers, telling them the story, telling them who James Bond really was. He didn't include what happened to him prior to their little adventure, that was Bond’s story to tell, but he did say what he thought about the gunman. Described the man he saw. It took a while until the news reached him - Bond was cleared and suddenly they were both heroes. Unfortunately, that didn't help Q forget him. Bond's face was too hard to wipe out from behind his eyes.

He sighed and propped his head on his hands on the counter. This kept happening although he thought it would slowly go away - instead of dead people, he kept dreaming about Bond, about the way he touched him, the suggestive smiles, the piercing blue eyes, the firmness of his body… and those thoughts hurt. Because Q was alone - in his sleep, in his shop, during every waking and dreaming hour, he was alone and Bond was only with him in his head, like a plague that won’t leave you until your last breath had left you. 

It’d been six weeks since he last saw him and he still missed his touch just like the second Bond’s lips left his, maybe even more. He cursed himself repeatedly every day for being pathetic and weak, for acting like a romanced school girl, but no matter the self reflection, it never helped him get a grip. He opened his eyes and looked down on the numbers he was counting, realizing he lost the count again. He sighed again and grabbed the pen, determined to finally get it right.

Not even five minutes into his work, he heard the door open and the shop was filled with daylight. His paper was very briefly completely illuminated until the shadow of a person standing in the door halted the light, and then the door closed. Q finished counting one of the row of numbers and straightened up to greet his customer.

His heart stopped and his eyes widened.  

James Bond stood in his doorway, smiling his cocky, roguish smile like he’d never left.  “I heard that this is the best gunshop in the entire area,” he said idly, as if taking note of sparrows on a rooftop, “I also heard that it was run by a hero, but no one told me he was easy on the eyes, too.”  

Bond looked good.  Last Q had seen him, he’d been fresh out of a fight and just barely patched up; he’d smelled of sweat and blood, and had looked rougher than sandpaper around the edges.  Now, while he still had the same layer of dust that everything in the West had, he looked fit and capable, still dressed like a wandering gunman but somehow managing to make it look classy. 

Q felt too many emotions at once - confusion, happiness, awe… to be honest, most of those emotions were embarrassing to him, because a man should probably not feel this way when looking at another man, at least that’s what the world made him think… but Q knew that was bullshit. He rationally knew that was all horse shit and he had an absolute right to feel this way. So after a second of staring, he collected himself, and said: “I don’t know about the hero part, but I can’t complain about that second bit. It’s no lady in a dress…” he almost cracked a smile at that. “... but I manage.”

The smile on Bond’s face grew wide and real, deepening the crows-feet around his eyes.  While the joke clearly amused him, his response was full of a deeper kind of warmth, as if he saw right through the jesting.  “It’s good to see you, Q,” he murmured. 

Q couldn’t help but smile back at him. “It’s good to see you, too, James. And surprising.”  

“You’re the one who was sending out letters like a machine and clearing my good name,” James deadpanned, arching a brow, “and  _ you’re _ the one who’s surprised?”  Shaking his head, perhaps a mixture of wonderment and fondness on his features, James strode the rest of the way in until he could lean towards Q across the countertop, eliminating the distance that had stretched between them just like that.  “I’m still a bit shocked that you managed it.  I hardly had a good name to clear to begin with,” James teased, but from this close, the warmth in his pale-blue eyes were even clearer to see. 

Q shrugged. “I just wanted them to know the truth. Seemed unfair when everyone was fussing about me, I wanted you to get in on that,” he grinned. 

For a man who could be so insanely bold, James actually looked a bit bashful now, ducking his head with a soft chuckle.  One gloved fingertip traced indecipherable patterns on Q’s countertop, and when his amusement petered off, James said in such a soft, low murmur that Q had to lean in to hear it, “Thank you, Q.”  Eyes like cloudless skies looked up at Q from beneath pale blond brows, and Bond emphasized, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to come back to a place in broad daylight, and I’d almost forgotten how much I missed that.”

Q’s heart made a little jump at the almost vulnerable picture the older man was making. He thought about all the things he could say, from a simple ‘Don't mention it’ to ‘I did it because I fell in love with you way too fucking easily’… but then he settled on the fear he felt anytime he thought about Bond’s possible future. He leaned in, capturing Bond’s eyes, and said: “Don't fuck it up, alright?”

For a second, James’s expression was dead serious… then his eyes glinted with mischief, his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly, and he replied, “And by ‘Don’t fuck it up,’ do you mean don’t shoot anyone who doesn’t deserve it, or don’t lean across the counter right now and kiss the sheriff's son just because I want to?”

This time it was Q’s stomach jumping, and his nether regions waking up in interest. It has been an awfully long time since Q had the chance to get any relief, and Bond had been haunting his dreams (quite literally) for most of that time, so when he held Bond's gaze and heard that smooth, deep voice, Q started remembering all the things he wished he could do to him, and shock was giving way to arousal.

He stood there for a second without a word, looking over Bond’s face, then turned and circled around the counter. Before Bond could ask what's going on, he walked to the door, aware of the second man’s confusion, and reached for his keys, stuck behind his belt. He fumbled the key into the lock and pulled back when he heard the quiet click. Instead of explaining, he turned on his heel and looked at Bond with a raised eyebrow.  Bond met it with an eyebrow of his own, and interest in his eyes.  He abandoned his previous question to ask instead, voice somehow managing to drop into a huskier octave, “Got plans for me, Q?”

Q just grinned and, releasing the keys from his fingers to fall to the ground with a clutter, his other hand reached for the buttons on his shirt, slowly opening it. “I got something better than plans,” he replied.

That was all it took to have Bond across the room in a rush, crowding Q against the door he’d just locked and swiftly making it impossible to undo any  buttons.  In fact, considering how swiftly and eagerly Bond’s mouth swept in to snog the breath right out of his younger companion, buttons suddenly seemed quite silly in comparison. More pressing - quite literally - was the contact of their bodies, and Q almost purred when Bond’s chest pushed into his, the pressure slightly too much, the sudden attack too rough, because that was exactly what Q needed, what he wanted. His fingers grabbed onto Bond’s shirt as the gunman curled one hand behind his back, his strong fingers splayed against the small of Q’s back and bringing their hips and bellies flush. Q gasped as their groins met. His hands grasped at Bond’s neck and pulled him down into another heated kiss, only narrowly managing to avoid scraping their teeth.  Bond released a low rumbled of approval that Q felt as much as heard, even as Bond’s free hand came up to cup his face, angling the kiss.  Soft, warm leather brushed against his skin, making him shiver. He broke the kiss and turned his head slightly until Bond’s gloved hand was resting against his mouth, and he gently took the tip of one of the fingers in between his teeth and pulled. He held Bond’s gaze as he slowly pulled his glove off his hand, one finger at a time, until the hand was free of it.  The gunman watched him the whole time, a carnal light growing in his eyes as the leather was stripped away.  Once his hand was free, however, he suddenly reached forward - fast as a snake - pinning Q’s head back with fingers tangled in his hair. Q let out the remaining breath he still had in him, suddenly feeling very light, only the butterflies in his lower belly remaining. His length twitched against Bond’s.  The larger man moved closer until their noses almost touched, then growled as he brought his other - still gloved - hand up to stroke against Q’s lower lip, “Take off the other one.”

Q grinned and opened his mouth, but before he would do as told, he first stuck out just his tongue and licked the offered leather. Bond’s eyes widened in brief surprise as Q sucked one gloved finger into his mouth, tasting dust but ignoring it for he was getting more enjoyment from the way Bond was watching him.  James’s eyes could be so cold - like the sun on a winter’s day - but now there was a fire in them, something burning.  The finger in Q’s mouth slid further in, until Bond was pressing down on his tongue.  His other hand hadn’t left Q’s hair, still gripping like he’d forgotten it there, or like everything in Bond wanted to keep Q  _ right there _ , his. As if Q would ever want to leave.

When Q couldn't taste anything but his own saliva, he took off the glove the same way he had the first, releasing it onto the floor, and immediately sucked in Bond’s bare finger. The taste changed immediately, going from road dirt to Bond’s natural salty musk, and Q moaned audibly, closing his eyes. He was rewarded by stubble brushing his cheek as Bond breathed him in, kissing his cheek, the corner of his eye, and moving back until he pressed his mouth to Q’s ear.  “God, I’ve been wanting you like this for so long,” the gunman breathed, leaning into Q now like he needed the support. The motion squeezed the last bit of air out of the young man, but he didn't mind one bit.

He released Bond’s finger so he could talk, deciding that there was a limit to the amount of dignity he could give up, and said: “The things I want you to do to me, James… you have no idea.”

Bond groaned just at the words, rolling his hips forward, the friction of chaps and trousers and too many layers of clothing already maddening.  “I think…” Bond got out, “I think if you’re going to say things like that, we’d better take this somewhere with a bed.  Or at least without windows.”

Q hummed in agreement, excitement bubbling in his stomach. “There's a staircase behind the counter… that leads to my flat. Would that be enough?”

Bond’s head jerked back until he could just stare at Q for an almost uncomfortable length of time, frowning.  Then, very slowly, the gunman muttered, “You are full of surprises.  Did you plan this?”

Q have him a bemused look. “Yes, I bought this building five years ago so we would have a place to fuck today when you surprised me in the middle of my shift. Really, Bond, your logic is sometimes flawless.’

“You little shit,” James might have remarked, but it was hard to focus on that when the man was leaning in, a scrape of stubble prickling Q’s jaw, before James bit the lobe of his ear in playful punishment for the sass. Q just grinned like a loon.

“So are we going or do you want me to suffocate here?” he asked when Bond wasn't moving. “Because as much as I'm enjoying this, you are heavier than a horse.”

“You seem to be under the impression that I won’t make you pay for every bit of snark you give me, so maybe this is punishment,” James replied with a mixture of wry - and certainly rather threatening - fondness, but at least he braced his hands on the wall to either side of Q’s head and pushed himself back.  He could have pulled away like a normal person, but no: he had to show off a bit of easy power as his arms and shoulders flexed, a powerful cage around Q before he stepped back.  Putting on a mild and innocent smile as if this was completely normal, James gestured, “Lead on, Q.”

Q did, thinking that he really hoped Bond would make him pay, but didn't say so. He went for the door behind the counter that lead to a narrow staircase, and, very aware of the fact Bond had the perfect view of his arse, climbed up into his small flat. It was basically just a bedroom with open access to a kitchen corner and a door to the bathroom, but it was enough for him. His bed was under the only window, and the floor creaked under their feet. Q felt weird having Bond in here - no one had ever been to his flat. His father had no interest in it, his friends weren't close enough to him, and the men he fucked were strangers who did so in a locked shop behind the counter where no one could see. Q wasn't very romantic at heart.  But perhaps Bond was, because as he came into the room - toeing the door closed softly - he approached and wrapped his arms around Q’s middle from behind, surveying the room from where he hooked his chin over Q’s shoulder.  “Cozy,” he commented, but his tone wasn’t judgmental.  

Q really wasn't romantic, but the hug was pleasant, so he indulged in it, his head resting on Bond’s shoulder and his hands curling around Bond’s, holding him close. “Thank you,” he turned his head and nipped at Bond’s ear and neck.  That earned him a low chuckle that vibrated through his back, and the mood began to return, James turning his head and finding easy access to the side of Q’s neck.  Bond mouthed ticklishly at the skin he found, tightening his arms to ensure that there was no possible escape. Q grabbed one of his hands and pulled it down until it was resting on his crotch, and started to massage himself with it, making Bond squeeze him through the thick fabric. His breathing picked up.  Bond was hard behind him in all the ways he could be - with interest, with pure muscle - and soon the nips became harder bites, just short of bruising.  As daring as James was, he knew that he couldn’t mark Q up too badly.

At least, not in any place that couldn’t be hidden.  

James slipped his hand out of Q’s grip, but before Q could complain, Bond used both hands to give Q a little shove towards the bed.  

Q got the message and went, unbuttoning his shirt on the way. When he reached the bed, he pulled it off himself, revealing what he knew to be a lean back, much smaller than Bond’s but quite muscular from his day to day work around the shop. He threw the shirt into the corner and turned around, making a show of opening his trousers and pulling them down. He had to lie down on the bed and arch so only his butt was lifted off of the mattress as he pulled them off, and suddenly he was fully naked while Bond remained clothed. It was making him feel vulnerable, a feeling he liked only and exclusively in bed.  It seemed to be working like a charm on Bond, too, as the man once again just watched, eyes going heavy-lidded and dark.  

Then slowly, after just gazing at Q for a long moment - eyes traveling like an invisible touch, from Q’s mouth, the graceful arc of his collarbones, the lithesome strength of his torso and downwards - Bond prowled forward.  “You have no idea,” he said in a husky, low, sincere tone, beginning to undress without hurrying as he walked, “how much I wish I could press you up against the window right now, your arse against the glass while I fuck you.”

A shiver went down Q’s spine and he stretched on the bed, imagining it. “If I ever have suicidal thoughts, I'll have you do that as my last action on this Earth.”

Bond was working on his shirt-buttons, baring his chest slowly, but he looked up from his work to grin cheekily, “Does your father ever take vacations?   _ My _ second wish would be to fuck you across his desk, but that might just be latent vengeful thoughts talking.”

Q turned to watch him and licked his lips at the view. Bond was as gorgeous as he remembered him - all muscles and scars, some of them very fresh. Q recognized the one Silva gave him, the one Q pulled the bullet out of, on his shoulder. It was still slightly red, but obviously healed properly. 

Q thought about throwing something at Bond for the remark about his father, but then the mental image of what Bond was suggesting made him pause and reconsider.

“There are no prisoners at the station these days,” he grinned. “And my father sleeps in a different house during the nights. Maybe when everyone else is asleep…”

“Does your father know that you’re an absolute scoundrel?” James accused through laughter even as he finished peeling off his shirt and then got impatient, merely toeing off his boots (which was a good idea, as no kink of Q’s included spurs) before pouncing on Q on the bed and pinning him to it. Q huffed as he settled, suddenly caged by the man.

“You have no idea,” he smirked and then bit his lip as he glanced down at Bond’s body. The gunman was only naked from the waist up, but he was definitely tenting his trousers with an impressive hard-on, and the muscles of his belly rippled as he shifted.  As Bond shifted one clad thigh higher up the bed, the rough material of his chaps chafed along Q’s inner thigh. Q sighed, grabbed Bond’s right cheek, and pulled him closer until the fabric was touching his hard length. The picture it was making was obscene,  especially as James moaned unashamedly . Q brought his hand up to his mouth and licked his fingers, then pressed them against Bond’s lower lip and slowly started sliding them down, over his chin, neck, Adam’s apple, between his pectorals and sternum, brushing them against the hard plates of Bond’s abs, all the time following their journey with his gaze. Finally he reached Bond’s trousers and flicked his eyes up to Bond’s.   The eyes that met his were dark and intense enough to drown in, although that ocean-blue was nearly gone, swallowed by dark and ravenous pupils.  

Q held his gaze as he unbuckled Bond’s trousers, and then he reached in and couldn't hold in a pleased sigh as his fingers found and encircled Bond’s erection.  Bond’s hips bucked, and one of the hands that had been pressing down against Q’s shoulder had to move to the bed for better support, as pleasure seemed to chase shivers up and down the gunman’s strong frame.  Q took that as a positive sign and started stroking the man’s cock, enjoying the weight of it, feeling the veins pulsing. After just a few strokes, he pulled Bond’s trousers further down, so that both their lengths were pressed together. He had to stifle a moan when he realized he could not encircle them both with just one hand.  “Impressed?” Bond had the pride to ask, although his voice sounded ruined, husky and gruff.  The man’s smile was insufferable, but he made up for it by leaning in to capture Q’s mouth, and God, the man could kiss.  Bond’s teeth caught at Q’s lower lip, scraping and then tugging gently. 

Q briefly wondered if he had any chance of overpowering Bond if he wanted to. If he could roll him onto his back and take charge. He very quickly settled on the fact that no, Bond was a mass that never moved an inch where it didn't want to, and that made his blood boil in the best way possible. If Bond decided to pin him to the bed and not let him move, Q would have no hope of escaping… and how fucked up must he be to find that as hot as he did?  Bond didn’t seem to be complaining about the power dynamics, though, and shifted one hand to bury it in Q’s hair again, tugging and curling his fingers in the strands almost unconsciously as he took more control of the kiss, plundering Q’s mouth.  

After a moment, however, he pulled back, their mouths making a wet noise as they parted.  Bond’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be gathering his control for some reason, the rest of his body stilling, too.  Before Q could fear that he’d done something wrong, however, James dragged in a deep breath that seemed to take, effort, and exhaled, “Lubricant.  Logically, I know that we need it, but you have no idea how hard it is to just stop and say that.”  He leaned down to give Q a quick peck on the mouth, then pulled back completely - and obviously reluctantly.  “Do you have anything we could use, Q?”

Q thought about it, trying to remember anything through the thick fog settled on his brain, and as he did so, he stretched on the bed like the tease he was, presenting Bond his body in the midst wanton way he could, grinning when he saw what effect that had on the other man.   Blue eyes were following his every move like metal to magnets.  

“There's some in the bathroom…” he rolled onto his side and started to get up to fetch it, but as soon as he moved, Bond leaned back in again, a knee on the bed - his stiff cock still arching obscenely from the front of his trousers - and grabbed him by the scruff.  It was a startling move, but quickly became unthreatening as James’s mouth pressed softly against his temple.  

The blond-haired man growled with playful threat, lips still brushing Q’s skin with every syllable, “I asked where it was so that  _ I _ could go get it, and so  _ you _ could stay sprawled on the bed like every dream I’ve had for the past month.”  

Q made an innocent face. “I just thought you would like to see my arse when I walk, but if you don't… suit yourself,” he sprawled back on the mattress, putting his hands behind his head and bending one leg at the knee.

Bond’s hand had lingered on his skin - not stopping Q’s movement, but now it rested like a light weight across Q’s throat, caressing curiously while Bond’s mouth curled upwards in a crooked smile.  “I’ve become accustomed to delayed gratification,” Bond said with faux blitheness, then pressed down, just a little, across Q’s throat as he leaned in to whisper from just an inch away, “and I know that as soon as I get back, your arse is  _ mine _ .”

Q honest to god  _ purred _ , and the vibrations from his throat made him even more aware of the pressure of Bond’s hand. He licked his lips and Bond’s eyes immediately jumped to watch. “I've had enough of delaying…” he said with a note of whining. “Hurry with that lube. I can't wait to have your cock in my arse.”

Another swift kiss rewarded him.  “God, you’re perfect,” Bond breathed, then disappeared.  He shed clothing as he walked towards the bathroom, and it was Q who got to ogle James’s arse before the man disappeared into the little room and began audibly rummaging for what he was looking for.  It took a bit more instruction from Q, as Bond called for directions, but soon the man was returning, a little bottle of oil in hand and not a stitch of clothing on him. Q felt almost inadequate, next to the bulk of a man Bond was, but then he reached down to stroke himself and the appreciative look that earned him was a good enough reassurance that he wasn't lacking in Bond’s eyes.  

James stalked closer, looking like some sort of predator, strides smooth and self-assured - and maybe just a bit hurried, because it sounded like he actually made a relieved noise when he was close enough to kneel on the bed again and seal their mouths together.   It was quite a boost to Q’s ego  to feel how much Bond appreciated his mouth.  A moment later, it was clear that James appreciated more of him than just that, as a big fist encircled Q’s own hand around Q’s cock, squeezing both with just enough strength to  make Q moan.   “Moments like this, it’s a wonder you don’t turn every man in this whole town gay,” James teased him, but there seemed to be a note of sincerity in it, even as James got both of their hands moving - Q’s touch, but his strength, all of it stroking Q’s cock with only precum for lubricant at the moment.  “But for today, you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

There was… a note of almost vulnerability in James’s voice as he finished that sentence, or at least something like wonder, as if he couldn’t believe it.  

Q sobered up a little, his gaze turning searching as he looked into Bond’s eyes. He was trying to make a decision. Finally, he threw caution to the wind and said: “Today… and any day after,” he bit his lip again, knowing that what he said was already putting him in a dangerous position, and that anything more he would say would be just stupid. But love tend ed to be stupid. “I don't really want to be anyone else's if I can be yours.”  

Bond’s eyes had widened, and while his hand stopped moving, he didn’t stopping touching Q or move away - simply stared.  Then blinked, like he was remembering how to.  Then leaned forward in a kiss that started out so hot and heavy that it pushed Q’s head back into the bed.  After a few moments, it softened into something deep and warm like honey.  James didn’t pull back until they both needed air, and then, only so that he could pant lightly with their noses touching.  “I…” said Bond slowly, clearly thinking over his words quite a bit for a man used to jumping headfirst into danger, “...don’t know if I can always be here.”  James’s hand started moving again, and damn the man, he was going to make concentration hard. Both of their hands started to slowly, slowly pump up and down Q’s cock.  “I haven’t settled down anywhere in so long that I don’t think I remember how.  But I can promise you one thing.”

Since James seemed to be waiting for a response of some kind before continuing, Q kissed him again, reassuringly, just a small peck on the lips. He hoped Bond would get to the point before he made Q come.  James was apparently an infuriating man even when he wasn’t hunting down serial killers and getting himself thrown in jail, but at least he got the message and replied (after running a tongue across Q’s teeth, mapping them), “I can promise that I’ll always come back.  Here.  To you.”  James nuzzled Q’s cheek, all warm skin and stubble.  “Is that enough for you?”  He’d gotten the jar of oil open with one hand somehow, and suddenly the movement of both their hands on Q’s cock was slicker, more distracting.  

“Yes,” Q gasped, both in response to the question and to the stimulation. “Yes, that's good, that's… god, Bond, wait a second!” he tried to still Bond’s hand, desperate to finish the conversation, which was impossible at the moment, as every movement of Bond’s hand made him see stars.  For once, the blond-haired gunman actually listened to directions, and his hand stilled, the sensations nearly peaking but then settling out to a level that allowed thought.  The blue eyes looking down at Q were still distracting, but at least they were as patient and watchful as they were intense, waiting uneasily for Q to say more.    And of course  _ Bond _ could be patient, no one was playing with his cock...

Q sighed in relief. “I don't expect you to be a housewife, Bond,” he said with mild exasperation. “I wasn't expecting you to be anything in my life until an hour ago. I'm happy for anything you want to offer. Just… tell me when you don't want to come back anymore, so I don't wait for you.”

Relief was like a tremor that chased itself through the powerful body above Q, and then James was leaning down, breathing, “That’ll be never,” before stealing another hungry, heartfelt kiss.  He backed up his brief promise with touch, a language that seemed to come more naturally: caresses of lips and tongue, possessively nipping teeth.

Q kept his mouth closed even though he wanted to argue, wanted to tell him not to promise anything, because life was rarely so easy and feelings tended to go cold. But the kisses and touches made him want to forget all that and lose himself in the fantasy of ease, freedom and security. The three things their lives could never be, not in the reality they were living.  Bond had lived a dangerous life even before he’d become an outlaw, and risk-taking seemed to be in his blood - but if the coaxing presses of his mouth and the returning movement of his big hand around Q’s fist and cock were any indication, the gunman was willing to bend the wild river of his life so that it flowed around Q.  Right now, it felt a lot like that river was going to sweep him away, as the lull in activity ended: Q’s cock was the center of attention again, Bond shifting positions restlessly, emitting a soft but hungry growl even as his kisses became more open-mouthed, breathier.  Q surrendered to it completely and for the time being just enjoyed the attention.

“James…” he whined when Bond’s touches started to make him see stars. “I won’t let you fuck me after I come, so sort out your priorities.”

Bond’s low growl became a huff, as if Q had just ruined all of his plans; it was hard to tell if the nip he delivered to the juncture between Q’s neck and shoulder was meant as an acknowledgement or a non-verbal complaint.  Ultimately, though, Q’s threat worked, because the larger man sighed and removed his hand - although it returned a moment later, after another small noise of the oil bottle being opened and closed.  Slick fingers returned to paint a ticklish line down Q’s belly.  “How are my priorities now?” Bond whispered huskily against the skin just under Q’s jaw… even as his oiled fingertip bypassed Q’s cock to instead stroke the younger man’s inner thigh, teasingly avoiding any erotic target yet. 

Q whined again, missing Bond’s hand on his cock even though he was the one who told him to stop, and he spread his legs even more, to the point where his joints protested. “I never took you for a patient man…” he said breathily. He looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m surprised you don’t just fuck me hard… like I  _ want _ you to,” he accentuated that last statement with a small kiss and a roll of his hips.

Not to be deterred, Bond pulled back far enough so that Q could see a positively devilish grin on his face, and eyes that were blown with lust but also wickedly playful.  One big paw of a hand pressed down on Q’s thigh, holding him still while also spreading more oil on his skin and keeping him open.  “Ohhh, you want me to fuck you, do you?” he faked surprised. Q narrowed his eyes. He was torn between his first instinct - a sarcastic, biting reply - and dirty talk, which he noticed Bond reacted to very strongly. In the end he couldn’t help his baser instincts.

“No, I want you to knit me a sweater. Do you have to be a dick even in this type of situations?”

While saying that, he reached between his legs to grip Bond’s wrist and try to bring it to his arse.  Bond shifted his weight and very carefully, with all the patience of a man who knows his own strength - and his own appeal - used his other hand to peel back Q’s grip.  The gunman didn’t let go, but instead kept hold of Q.  As if he had all the time in the world (Q really should have grabbed his cock), James trapped both of Q’s wrists and pushed them up above Q’s head, where he trapped them in his un-oiled fist.  Then leered down pleasantly.  “There’s just no pleasing you.  First, you don’t want me jacking you off, and now that I’m not, you’re still stroppy.”

Q couldn’t help the happy sigh that left him now that he was stretched and trapped again. There was a wave of butterflies flying through his insides, and he felt as if they wanted to leave his body through his skin. He closed his eyes and when the feeling calmed down, he just twisted his wrists and Bond’s tightening grip made the butterflies appear again. He smiled. “Don’t act like me begging for your cock isn’t pleasing  _ you _ ,” he said.

The grin above him became more impish.  Blue eyes flicked down, showing that Bond’s cock was definitely as interested in the proceedings as Q’s was.  “I might find it a bit flattering,” James admitted, then added, “I also might understand why cats like playing with their food.”  As if to emphasize his words, Bond’s free hand played a bit more - slick fingers gave a little pinch to the sensitive skin on the back of Q right thigh. Q hummed, his eyes still closed.  Perhaps surprised that the little pain he’d inflicted had been received as if it were pleasure, James leaned in - almost hesitantly - and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth, then stayed close to keep murmuring, “I’ve got every intention of devouring you whole, Q, but you see…”  He scratched blunt fingernails over where he’d pinched, urging Q to bend his knee, so that James could lightly score his skin all the way down to his arse.  “...I’m not really a nice man.”

Q hissed at the sting, but didn’t draw back. He was thoroughly enjoying it. To be honest, this was the first time in his life he ’d been in a situation like this. Yes, he knew he liked strong men who pinned him down and fucked him raw, and he always had a major kick out of being thrown around, but he never had a partner, he never had the time to explore this side of him with someone else. The men he bedded… well, he didn’t even bed them, they were just passer sby who made it quick and dirty, and Q always liked it… he never knew he could suffer this beautifully with them if only there was time. He never knew that teasing would make him want to melt into the mattress and burn at the same time.

“I’m starting to regret I cleared your name…” he said with a small smile. “You are clearly still a sadistic criminal.”

“Ah, so you do understand me,” Bond replied in kind, with another small kiss like a butterfly-brief reward.  This time, he stayed close, angled his head so that they were cheek-to-cheek, his mouth by Q’s ear so that he could rumble like a secret, “I wanted to fuck you right there in that jail cell, with that dress still on you, with Bill Tanner watching.”  He dug his fingernail in, no doubt creating little half-moon marks on Q’s pale skin, little spots of bright, warm pain. Q’s breath fell short.  “I wanted to hike that skirt up around your thighs and fuck you until  _ you _ ruined that gorgeous dress.  Or maybe not fuck you at all - maybe just my fingers.”  Those fingers did indeed slip lower, closer to Q’s most vulnerable places, finding the sensitive skin behind Q’s balls.  Bond pressed there teasingly.  “Maybe I’d make you come on nothing but my fingers in your arse, milking you dry.”  Another kiss, this one to Q’s ear, creating a vivid contrast of gentleness and almost-threat between the gunman’s gentle mouth and his dangerous hands. Q whined pathetically.

“Don’t you dare, Bond…” he tried to go for a threatening tone but all he managed was a petulant moan. Then he tried to change the tactic. He opened his eyes and looked into Bond’s blue ones. “Would you really miss out on the opportunity to fuck me raw? Hm? After all this time, you wouldn’t want to bury your cock in that warm hole? I fingered myself, Bond, I know what I’m like… so silky. So hot. You know you want to feel me.”

Bond shut him up with a ravenous kiss, stealing Q’s air but failing to hide his own groan on the exhale.  Breaking the kiss suddenly - a messy sound of wet lips and tongue parting, and twinned gasps - James pulled back far enough to state emphatically, “You’re a monster, and I have no idea how you’ve got nice men like Tanner fooled into thinking you’re an angel.”  Even if it weren’t for the husky, hungry grasp of Bond’s voice to give him away, the tightening of his grip on Q’s wrists betrayed that his own control was being sorely tested.  Q could feel victory on the tip of his tongue. That and the ghost of Bond’s tongue.

“Tanner has no idea… no one has any idea who I really am, Bond. You might be getting close… but you still haven't reached the bottom of my depravity. Do you want to try? Do you want to…”

Apparently Bond  _ did _ , or else he’d decided that there were other ways to deal with Q’s babble than just kissing him silly: mid-sentence, Q felt a finger slip into him, just enough oil to soothe its passage even as callouses made it rough.  He gasped, his train of thought suddenly and completely gone, and for a while no sound escaped him, not even a breath, and his eyes were unfocused and pointed at the ceiling. He knew the feeling quite well and it still surprised him every single time, the slight burn, the intrusion being wrong in a way but also so good, and the want for more…  

“You’re right,” Bond rumbled, as low and intimate as the beating of Q’s own heart, right alongside his ear again, “I  _ do _ want to feel you.”  And with that, he pumped his finger in and out with purposeful slowness, letting Q feel the full thickness of his finger and the texture of oiled, scarred skin.  The hand around Q’s wrists massaged the bones right through his skin, powerful and possessive all in one, with Bond’s breathing growing rougher alongside Q’s cheek - in time with Q’s, as if they were both being stroked somewhere visceral and deep.

Q finally breathed in when the shortness of his breath was getting dangerous. He planted his feet more securely into the mattress, lifted his arse up, and started rocking, making the finger go even deeper, and soon it wasn’t enough. “More,” he asked - no, begged. This time, James obliged, proving that if he was a monster, he was at least a benevolent one when it suited him.  A second finger sunk in, rubbing and curling, abruptly finding that spot deep inside that made Q see stars. The younger man’s back bent in an arch, so hard his his chest touched Bond’s. “God, yes!” he breathed out. “Come on, Bond, quicker, you can do it quicker…”

“I can,” Bond admitted, then went back to being an utter bastard as he added, “but I’m not sure I should.”  He lifted his head, no longer whispering in Q’s ear but looking at him with blue eyes alight with mischief.  “Give me a reason,” he challenged.

“The quicker you open me up, the quicker you can get to fucking me?” Q said cheekily. Then, with even more cheek, he added while rocking his hips particularly hard: “And because I love it rough. Don’t be afraid of hurting me, Bond.”

Bond’s grin spread, and he murmured, “Noted,” at the exact same time he rubbed purposefully against that perfect spot, having taken note of that, too.  He seemed to feed off the sight of Q coming apart, even as he settled his powerful body closer, stiffened cock rutting unconsciously against Q’s groin.  “But you should know that if you like it rough, I like it  _ slow _ ,” James went on, and it was like a glorious threat, even before James leaned in to bite Q’s chin, then his jaw, like a predator testing out its catch. It made Q whine with frustration and pleasure, the two most delicious sensations when mixed. If Bond wanted to destroy him completely, he was doing a great job. He couldn’t even fight him (a fact that was making his knees weak every time he thought of it). He wondered briefly if Bond would stop if he told him to, even if he told him to right now, as half mad with pleasure as he was, and decided that he would try it. Maybe. One day. When stopping for just a second would be an option. Until then, he had two thick fingers to keep him contented, giving him too much and not enough all at once.  As much as Q was disinclined to think about any previous lovers Bond might have had, one thing was clear: James had learned how to play another body like a musician might play a violin.  

And he was a man who knew what he wanted - and right now, he clearly wanted to drive Q bloody insane. Mind you, Bond never did things half-way.

“Fuck!”

Q started swearing somewhere around the third finger being inserted into him, and hadn’t stopped since. At the rate they were going, he would need a gag just to keep him from shouting and attracting the whole town to his flat, and he would need it quick. The rational part of his mind (or what was left of it) started panicking about that and he managed to shut up for half a minute, but then Bond did something wicked to his prostate and a sound so filthy and loud tore from him it made him shortly embarrassed. His first instinct was to cover his mouth with his hand, but as he tried to move it he remembered how strong Bond was and that his hands wouldn’t be free any time soon. He needed help with staying quiet since he obviously couldn’t manage it himself.

“Bond, gag me!” he begged. “Just… make me shut up, I can’t…!”

For a moment, the gunman looked a bit startled - understandable, since this was probably not a typical request - but then something avaricious lit in his eyes, something calculating and very interested.  He stopped torturing Q for a moment, letting him come down from his high just a little, and in the newfound, panting quiet, asked, “If I put a hand over your mouth, are you going to try and bite me?”  He sounded entirely serious, and perhaps a bit wary.  “I already know that you’ve got a sharp tongue, and I’m entirely sure that you’re not all bark and no bite, as the saying goes.”   

Q panted for a while, then raised his eyebrows. “Do people bite you a lot when you cover their mouths? … Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know,” he added quickly when  Bond opened his mouth to answer . “Don’t worry, I don’t bite when I ask for something.”

“I’m going to remember that if you ever ask for my cock,” Bond teased, but then he was flexing the hand around Q’s wrists, as if he had to test whether he really wanted to let go or not.  His eyes surveyed Q’s face for a moment, as if part of him couldn’t believe the trust Q was putting in him, before he let Q’s hands go in favor of settling his palm across Q’s mouth.  The pressure was firm and warm, Bond’s skin dampened with both of their sweat, and so clearly capable of suffocating Q to death if the man decided to. Instead, of course, the blue-eyed gunman merely sealed his palm across Q’s lips, then leaned down to lightly kiss Q’s nose.  “I’m going to assume that you’re comfortable until you try to bite me,” he said despite Q’s promise not to.

Then twisted his fingers in Q’s arse, slow and sweet, and Q thanked the gods for the hand on his mouth for he would probably wake his father on the other end of the town with an unrestrained scream if it wasn’t for it.

After a few more minutes he realized the fl a w in his plan - he couldn’t ask Bond for anything he wanted. If he could, Bond would probably ignore him and prolong his frustration even more just to be a dick, but it still made him wish he could speak. Instead he tried to show the gunman in a more physical way. His legs were straining painfully as he was fucking himself onto Bond’s fingers more and more greedily, hoping James would get the hint and finally give him more.  “Easy, Q,” James murmured in response, pressing Q’s head back further into the bedsheets.  Q realized why a moment later, as the man began to kiss and gently bite the skin of his now-exposed throat.  Bond murmured against his pulsepoint, so close that the words were half felt as a vibration, “I’ll give you what you need.”

That made Q hum in contentment. His neck was one of the more sensitive parts of his body, so he settled down and enjoyed Bond’s explorations, his hips calming down just a bit, still slightly rocking, but more as an afterthought. Perhaps Bond approved, because he made a rumbling, wordless noise against the hollow of Q’s throat. Q’s right hand gripped his neck, pulling him even closer, and the left sank into his short hair, ruffling it.  Even though Bond would forever have bragging rights about taking Q apart in bed right now, at that point, Q earned himself an honest-to-god purr from the man - something to brag about in its own right.  As if that had somehow been the secret to getting James to hurry the fuck up, the blond-haired man removed his fingers - Q  had a little heart attack, for a second thinking he didn’t like to be touched that way - then reached blindly for the container of oil again to slick up his cock. He’d definitely prepared Q well enough, so when James nudged up against his hole and began to thrust shallowly in, Q was ready for something tame.

Right up until James suddenly bit down - hard - on the skin over Q’s right clavicle, creating a focal point of warm pain like a burst of light.  At the same time, the gunman slid smoothly into Q in one shuddering, eager stroke.  His whole body bore down onto Q, his hand tightening on his mouth,  and Q’s resulting moan was buried in Bond’s palm, but the fire that ignited in Q’s stomach, cock and arse could not be stomped down.  With Bond pressed so close, he could feel the ripples of muscle as the larger man steadied himself, as if seeking some sort of control, before he seemed to realize that he didn’t have to - Q had asked for rough, hadn’t he? It was gratifying to know that James could follow simple instructions, however belatedly. The last pause Bond gave, to let Q catch his breath, was as he released his bite to instead drag a warm tongue across it, awakening the abused nerves like lightning.  Then, bracing his free hand alongside Q’s shoulder, he drew out nearly to the tip before pounding back in.   

Q raised his legs from the mattress and hugged them around Bond’s hips, drawing him impossibly closer while digging his elbows into Bond’s muscled shoulders to keep him where he was, not realizing how strongly he was gripping his hair. Neither of them seemed to care, though - their bodies were completely intertwined and working as one, meeting halfway into melting into one another, chasing their completion at a dizzying pace. Q felt like the pleasure was becoming too much already - he feared what the orgasm would do to him if just the build up was making him this desperate. His cock was brushing against Bond’s stomach with every their move. There wasn’t time to breathe. What breath he got ricocheted off the side of Bond’s hand, gusting out of his nose on the exhale and drawing in the smell of salty sweat, earthy skin, and gunsmoke on the inhale.  The smell was all James, and like a drug - and on top of it all, Bond hadn’t let the bite-mark alone yet, either.  With Q holding him close, he took that as an excuse to lathe his tongue across it, or suck hotly at the raw skin, giving Q  the sparks of pain he needed.

A bit more, just a bit more and Q could explode, he felt it, felt it on the tip of his tongue, in his fingertips. If Bond bit down again, if he squeezed him harder, if he quickened his pace just slightly… there would be no coming back. It seemed entirely likely that all three were going to happen at once, at this rate, because James was clearly losing it, too; each snap of his hips sent the bed beneath them jerking, and it was a sight to see, all of the muscle at play with every fervent move.  And just when it didn’t seem like it could get any better - the whiteout of pure ecstasy waiting on the horizon - James began to talk, everything from filth to prayers on his lips, pressed to the skin he’d just bitten and bruised like a king putting his seal into hot wax.  

The voice was what did it. The absolute adoration, desperation, utter undoneness of the man currently driving Q mad, that was what tipped Q over, and the next thing he knew he was coming harder than he had ever in his life, his come spilling over both of their chests, his arse squeezing Bond inside him, and his world went black for a second or maybe a minute. He was vaguely aware of Bond’s rhythm stuttering, as he followed Q in tipping over the edge.  Bond’s hand finally slipped off his mouth, if only so that the larger man could brace both elbows on the bed and keep from crushing his bedmate.  

Bond panted, head hanging so that his hair tickled Q’s jaw, his breath washing over Q’s skin.  After a moment, however, he shifted - just enough to turn his head and kiss the bite mark he’d left.   The little spark of residual pain made Q hiss, momentarily overstimulated,  but James didn’t press.  “You’re gorgeous,” the blond-haired man murmured instead, voice wrecked and low but as utterly sincere as a declaration of love. Q wanted to do the same, he really did - tell Bond how amazing he was, how he made his world turn upside down just then, how he loved him… but he would be lucky if he could roll over by himself. He felt like all life had left him and only a shell was left to lie bonelessly on the bed.  Movement was just as impossible as speech.  Bond’s body was over him, almost too heavy; Bond’s cock, still in him but soft now, as spent as Q’s was; one of Bond’s thumbs was absentmindedly stroking his shoulder, where James had a forearm braced against his side.  The man was an anchor keeping him in place and a living blanket keeping him warm even as cum dried in a mess between them.   Eventually Bond pulled out and shifted enough to the side that he wasn’t in danger of crushing his partner anymore.  

When Q finally found the strength to move, he rolled over onto the man, turned his head and tucked it under Bond’s chin, and his hands came to rest between their stomachs. If Q were any more awake, he would find his own actions strange - hiding himself, wanting to be hugged tight and cuddled, that wasn’t like him. Well, to be honest… it was something he always wanted to do but had no one to do it with. But  to  give up the illusion of independence and strength so easily… it wasn’t like him.

Maybe Bond made him feel safer than he knew. Maybe he felt known by him. There was definitely something about James Bond that made Q lose all his protective layers and open up completely. Just looking back ten minutes ago… he did things and asked for things he only ever dreamed of. With his previous partners he never asked for anything. Granted, they didn’t need prompting to be rough with him, but whatever they did, he was content with settling on it. Not with Bond though. With Bond he didn’t fear being laughed at or mocked. Such a strange thing, mostly when in the beginning Bond seemed to be a heartless monster. Oh, how much time had shown him.  

“You asleep yet, Q?” Bond’s low, husky rumble broke the quiet.  An arm looped over Q’s middle, beginning to idly - but gently, apparently in case the answer was ‘yes’ - stroke up and down the line of Q’s back.  

“Hmm,” was all Q could muster, but he did lean into Bond more so he presented more of his back to his wandering fingers. They scratched lightly, before rising up to gently knead the nape of Q’s neck.  

It was impossible to tell whether James took that as a yes or a no, because he leaned in slowly to press a kiss to the edge of one ear, as if afraid to wake Q further - but also murmured, “I’m glad that you got me arrested.”

Q smiled under his nose at that and then murmured: “I’m glad you dragged me through hell, made me see dead people, kill living people, got me hurt, arrested, and got shot multiple times in the process.” Then he cracked an eye open to make his point. “But try avoiding it in the future.”

Bond was chuckling by the time Q finished, clearly not offended by the rather unsettling listing at all.  His big hands had flattened against Q’s back - the one high on Q’s back, the other lower around his waist, to drag Q in closer to him with a possessiveness that  warmed Q to his soul.   Another press of lips ruffled Q’s hair.  “I make no promises,” James teased.

Q had to stop himself from purring into the older man’s chest. He did, however, nuzzle and wiggle and press himself close to him like a cat, and only sighed happily when his whole front was engulfed in the incredible warmth of Bond’s skin. The vibration of chuckles from that chest transformed into something deeper, and perhaps Q wasn’t the only one capable of cat metaphors - because it sounded perhaps like James had just purred.

“I’ll tell everyone this flat has two rooms,” Q whispered into his ear after a while of considering if it wouldn’t make James just run away. “If you want.”

For a moment, the man went very still.  But he wasn’t preparing to run - instead, it seemed quite the opposite.  “I do want that,” he said with quiet sincerity.  The hand on Q’s upper back slid around to catch under Q’s chin, tipping Q’s head back to a kiss, with Bond murmuring after the first brush of lips, “And I can promise that I’ll fill that ‘spare room’ as much as possible.”  

Q smiled, relieved, and kissed Bond back much more enthusiastically. One kiss grew into two and then he lost count. His head was swimming with all the emotions that caught up with him - draped over a man he reluctantly had to admit he loved, he pushed all his doubt and cynicism aside and kept kissing him. He felt warm all over - from the sex, from the relief, from Bond’s body, from the sun shining through the window… and from the hope that was blooming in his chest, that this could be his life, that he could grow old like this and never mind. Hope that nothing would spoil this.

~^~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder - my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/writeyourheartout


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, our dear readers!
> 
> This is the end of our journey, as it seems. Thank you very much for being there with us and this story, we hope you enjoyed it as much as we enjoyed writing it.

Q’s stomach gave a loud cheer as what he knew was the first plate of the evening was placed in front of him on the table. The roast looked amazing, and Q knew that Mallory’s cooks were the best in town. Dinners at his place were his favourite culinary experiences of the past seven years.

It all started when he was sent an invitation to celebrate their win over Silva just a week after the events in Bisbee. It was just him, his father, Mallory and the Tanners, who both started working at the mansion and were quickly becoming Gareth’s good friends. Now, seven years down the road, Bill was his right hand and Eve his secretary, and the two were never happier. 

Q’s life hasn’t changed much. He still spent most of his time in his shop, which only grew, just like the town, just like the country, just like the States. He did make his flat a nicer place to live - bought a real bed, fixed the bathroom floor, painted the walls - but other than that he liked his life just the way it was, without much change. It was a comfort to know that every day would be roughly the same.

He looked around the table. They were trying to wait for the last guest of their usual little gathering to arrive, but the sheriff was taking ages and the food was growing cold, so Mallory let the cooks know they could serve and Q made a mental note to tease the sheriff about his old age and slow legs once he arrived. Eve and Bill looked just as hungry as he was, and Mallory would probably not have a hair amiss if he were dying in a fist fight, but his eyes did shine a little when a plate was laid before him.

He was just about to reach for his fork when he heard the door open. He sighed, happy that the evening could finally begin, and leaned back as Mallory raised his head and smiled invitingly.

“Finally,” he said in his low voice. 

Before Q could turn around to see what Mallory was looking at - eye focused over Q’s shoulder - arms slipped around Q from behind, settling around his collarbone.  The new sheriff of Tombstone, his sky-blue eyes alight with mischief, neatly captured the gunshop owner.  As James leaned around to nuzzle at Q’s cheek, Q  tried to push him away with a disgruntled murmur.

“We're in public!” he hissed.

“As if that ever stopped him,” Mallory grunted dryly.

Bond’s chuckle was low and wicked, but if he shot Mallory a look, it didn’t phase the other man - and Q didn’t get time to dwell on it, because James was angling his head around to catch Q’s mouth in a kiss.  It was just barely polite, and definitely lasted too long, because Eve and Bill started to playfully complain by the time James let Q go.  He paused a moment, still close, eyes alight with a mischief that hadn’t dimmed - not even when he’d decided that perhaps he could settle down, and become a sheriff, no less.  

“I'm still mad at you,” Q said in a tone that was definitely not mad. He didn't understand how it was possible that the effect Bond had on him didn't cease even after all these years they were together. When Bond first started living with him, he tried very hard not to be too dependant on him, mostly because he didn't want to seem weak and also because he kept telling himself that Bond could leave at any point. And several times, Bond did - he had a restless personality, and pure domesticity made him into a large animal in a small cage sometimes.  As it turned out, however, being given a job perfectly suited to his skills did a lot to keep him entertained.  

“Mad at me for kissing you,” Bond asked, finally releasing Q and instead slipping into a seat with a pleasant smile at everyone - the man was a charmer - and continuing, “being late to dinner, or for some other unnamed thing I’ve done lately?”   

Q frowned at him, immune to at least that part of his personality by now - James could not fool him by his nice smile unless it was absolutely sincere, and Q knew how to distinguish between those by now.

“For making me wait for food. You know that's one of the highest crimes.”

The dinner was a pleasant and familiar event and both of them looked forward to it each month, so they enjoyed their time with those who grew to be their best friends. At first it was slightly restricting, because while Boothroyd was still well and alive, they had to pretend they were just friends, even though Bill and Eve knew about them (how could they not when James almost molested Q in front of Bill several times) and Mallory very quickly caught on and expressed it at one of the dinners, with one of his usual dry remarks, exactly as Q was drinking his wine, surely trying to kill him. After Q’s father was too sick to attend, and then died, it took Q a few months to enjoy anything, but the last year was one of the most beautiful of his life. The business was thriving, James finally seemed to have found his place on Earth, and they could be open about their relationship, if not everywhere, then at least in some places.

After dinner, it was custom for them to settle for the night in one of the rooms in the mansion instead of going home in the dark. James was called off into Mallory's office to talk over some business - Mallory's money basically ran the town, so it was agreed a long time ago that a group of the sheriff's men would accompany his carriages instead of hired henchmen - and Q said his goodnights to Bill and Eve and went to their room.

He washed in a small bathroom at the end of the hall and was walking back to their room, suddenly very tired, when he heard some light steps behind him.  Some things about Bond hadn’t changed from the first time Q met him, and one of those things was that the man was insanely sneaky for his size, so that was the only warning Q got before strong hands were gripping his shoulders and spinning him into the wall.  With his chest and cheek pressed to the wall, Q had to look over his shoulder to see Bond’s grin as the man leaned into him and kissed the rim of his ear.  “You know,” Bond mused, “I think you’re under arrest.”

Q let out a shaky breath, trying to calm down not from the shock, but from how his stomach fluttered with excitement at the rough treatment. As it seemed, neither of them changed and Bond knew just how to use Q’s hidden submissiveness against him. 

“What for?” he asked when he trusted his voice.

Bond hadn’t bothered to haul Q’s arms up behind his back, but his weight was imprisoning enough, especially as he braced a hand on either side Q’s shoulders and leaned in.  If anyone had been looking down the hall, Q would have been all but invisible, pressed to the wall and hidden by Bond’s bulk.  “I haven’t thought that far ahead, actually,” Bond admitted, “but I’m sure I’ll think of something.”  

“I believe you would,” Q agreed. “And what would be my sentence?”

“A night in a cell-”  Bond punctuated his leisurely sentences with kisses down the side of Q’s neck, sounding idle even as the hard shape of his interested cock pressed against Q’s arse through their clothing, “-A well-furnished one, of course, because no matter what heinous thing you did-”  Bond paused to bite a little, teeth sinking into the slope between Q’s neck and shoulder  until his dark-haired lover hissed in a breath.   “-You’re still the sheriff’s mistress, and deserve the best.”  

“I detest that!” Q tried for a mockingly scandalized tone but it was hard when his most sensitive spots were being explored by Bond’s tongue. “I’m the man of the sheriff’s dreams, you filthy animal, and he would never put me in a cell. Handcuffs yes…” he snickered, remembering all their fun times with them, “... but never a cell.”

“What if the cell had a bed?”

Q pretended to think about it. “Depends. Would I be granted visitations?”

“Only one,” Bond grinned against his skin, “and he wouldn’t leave.  I’m told he’s an annoying bastard that way - but great in bed.”  James’s hips pushed forward to emphasize that, and Q gasped as his own erection was pressed against the wall.

“I believe I've said the former once or twice, but you would have to refresh my memory on the latter…” he said, then remembered where they are. “But how about you stop refreshing it in the middle of the hallway?”

Bond still had a lot of habits - sneaking up on people, drawing a gun faster than most people could blink, and hiding a franky terrifying number of knives on his body - but a new habit that had been growing on him was sensibleness.  It was kind of nice sometimes, like now, as James paused.  He grumbled like a child, of course, muffling it petulantly against the side of Q’s neck, “I think it would be fun to expand the horizons of all the boringly straight people in this household.”

“I’m not saying that’s not true,” Q said as if talking to a small child. “But I enjoy living my life without a bunch of religious nutheads banging on my door every day, telling me I’m going to hell. Come on, sheriff, bring me in,” he finished with a grin. “In jail, no one sees what you do to the prisoners…”

“Very true, very true,” Bond finally acquiesced with clear interest in his tone.  He backed off, and when Q was able to turn, the older man’s smile was warm, like a hearth-fire behind his pale blue eyes.  This was the look that Q got to come home to, the smile he loved more than anything, and the smile almost no one else but him got to see.

As the door closed behind them, the hall grew silent again, and only if someone passed their door could they hear what was unmistakably going on inside. After years of their monthly visits, though, unknown to them, the staff of the mansion knew better than to make their way through there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *a quick note from Truth* Co-writing is always such an exciting, organic experience - and although this is only the third time I've done this, I'm pretty sure that no two co-writes are the same. It's always personally amazing to me to see how a story evolves when it's got two gods to govern it. In this case, Dora-God wrote Q (and most of the minor characters) and I wrote Bond (because I'm addicted to writing that man and his addiction to dangerous things). So any part about Q, you can give my fabulous co-writer all the glory for that ;) I can only take credit for Bond's small fraction of the Wild West insanity...


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